Heartwell
by Murg
Summary: Completed. The story of a soldier of the Alliance and the woman he loves. Update: Added the making of Heartwell.
1. Part 1

Part 4

**Heartwell **

**Part 1**

**Prologue**

"Idiot! Fool! How could you let an infidel into the heart of my lands?!"

In the darkest recess of a forsaken continent, a being of incalculable power and evil raged. The Lich King's massive throne room had little decoration, for the Frozen Throne and its occupant were sure to draw the eyes away from any mere ornamentation. Besides the Throne, the only other object of note in the room was a dark altar, upon which countless human lives had ended. The aura of evil here was so palpable that, if any priest of the Light were to behold it, they would surely be driven mad.

Before the Throne, a servant of the Lich King trembled before the wrath of his master.

"Lord! Great One! It was not my fault the intruder got so far. She had --"

"It is your job as the Defender of Icecrown to protect this glacier. You had an entire _legion_ of my minions at your command, Serrax, and you could not find a single elf! That I actually had to use my psychic powers to find her for you, that I actually had to dirty my hands with this simple task is an insult that I will assuage to your extreme discomfort--"

"I'm so sorry, Great Lord! The ranger wench-"

"_Silence_!" Ner'zhul snarled, his powerful voice echoing through the vast confines of the chamber. The lesser lich's apologies died on the instant.

"Bring in the elf."

The door to the throne room swung open, and a half-dozen acolytes entered carrying a struggling woman. The markings on her tattered green cape identified her as a Pathfinder, a member of the highest cadre of the elite ranger corps. Her auburn hair was disheveled and her clothing was ripped and torn, but she appeared to be unhurt.

"Secure her to the altar," ordered Ner'zhul and his acolytes obeyed. He could have his lackeys do this, the necromancers. Some of them were quite good at the Black Arts, but he wanted to make certain that this was done perfectly. He needed to know why the ranger, alone, had attempted the perilous journey into the heart of his domain, and for that he would need the entirety of her spirit intact.

He had learned the value of caution over the years, and the value of understanding one's enemy. He had suffered setbacks, even outright defeats in his life, but he had come too far to leave anything to chance now. When his servants commenced the invasion of Lordaeron, he wanted to know exactly what type of enemy he faced.

"Think you that I will beg, that I will grovel?" spat the high elf. "You are a coward! You are nothing! It took a hundred of your servants to capture me, and I killed half of them while they tried it. _Lysa sheris!_ If ever we were to meet in combat, you would be the one to beg for mercy!"

Behind her bravado Ner'zhul sensed her fear, and felt her pounding heart. Trapped as he was within the Frozen Throne, the Lich King had lost the ability to physically move. Now he had to make do with the power of telekinesis. Calmly he used that power to grasp a glowing dagger beside the altar, and shear away what was left of the ranger's clothes. Muttering arcane words, he floated the dagger high above the altar to strike, while the naked Pathfinder desperately, futilely struggled with her bonds.

When Ner'zhul was alive, he would have thought the ranger beautiful, even though the blood that had flowed through his veins had been orcish. But Death had stolen his appreciation for pleasures of the flesh, just as it had stolen his capacity for mercy, small as it had been.

He finished the incantation and plunged the dagger downward.

The woman grunted, but seemed surprised to find the dagger embedded in her belly button. Apparently she had thought Ner'zhul would pierce her heart, or slit her throat. Her struggles redoubled, for the wound she had taken was minor, hardly life threatening. A glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes, for it was Death she feared, and now it seemed this sacrificial ritual was not what it seemed--perhaps a magical interrogation instead, or some type of divination spell. Perhaps she would live, for a while longer at least.

If it had been possible, the Lich King would have shaken his head. The pitiful mortal did not understand the nature of the runeblade. The danger of the glowing dagger lay not in its keen edge, but in its capacity to steal souls.

The hope in the ranger's eyes died as she realized the blade was not what it seemed. The vampiric blade began to glow more forcefully, slowly pulling her elf spirit inside. Her terror was now evident, and she made no more pretense of bravado. Her struggles became frantic, her breathing rapid, the runeblade a tiny parasite sucking her life away.

"No! No! _NO!!_"

Ner'zhul ignored her futile struggles and focused on the dagger. As the ranger's spirit was drawn inside, it became chained to Ner'zhul's essence just as firmly as he was chained to the Frozen Throne. The spirit was strong in this one, and he savored the delectable taste -- the fact that she resisted so strongly only increased his ecstasy. His consciousness became awash in her emotions, life essence, and memories.

It was the memories that concerned him. The high elves were a long-lived race, and this particular high elf was several hundred years old. Like a fine wine that had been perfectly aged, he greedily drank in her memories--of her childhood, of a loving family, of playing in the majestic forests of Quel'thalas, of her decision to begin training as a ranger, of her swift promotion through the ranks, of a long romance with a boyfriend, of a long friendship with another ranger named Bryony, and finally, what the Lich King sought…

Her decision to travel to Northrend. Her friends and family had all been against it, but she was a headstrong elf and would not be deterred.

"There's a growing evil in Northrend, and I would be remiss in my duties as a ranger if I did not find out if it threatens our people," she had told them.

What a relief! She had acted alone, without support from either Quel'thalas or the Alliance. She was not a scout for a larger force, and no one would be coming to find her. His carefully crafted plans were intact. The dagger was finishing its work.

The Pathfinder's struggles had ceased and her breathing was shallow. She moaned faintly as she stared at the blade. A few seconds later, she closed her eyes, let out a deep sigh, and did not draw in another breath.

The dagger stopped pulsating with light, and the Lich King muttered a minor preservation spell to keep the lifeless corpse from decaying. She was the first high elf he had ever Taken, and her memories had showed him that this race had many skills to offer the Scourge. Lordaeron was the primary threat of course, but he would now be certain to send forces to take Quel'thalas once the heart of the Alliance had been dealt with.

But there was one last thing to attend to. Using telekinesis to grasp the hilt of the dagger with an invisible hand, he sent a portion of the ranger's essence back into her body. The dead elf coughed, and her eyes fluttered open.

"What…what have you done to me?" she groaned.

"You are neither dead, nor alive, but somewhere in between, elf. I have given you…a new outlook on existence," said the Lich King as he used his power to withdraw the runeblade and sever her bonds.

"I'm so cold!"

"Yes, for the warmth of life does not belong to you anymore, Kirielle. Yes! I know your name. My name is--"

"I don't care what your name is!" cried the pale high elf, now leaping to her feet, unashamed of her nakedness. She grabbed the floating dagger. "Big mistake, cutting those bonds. You won't believe how quickly I'm gonna kill you, even with this puny blade! That block of ice won't protect you for long!"

"You forget Kirielle, you're dead. You have no soul, and therefore no will. No will, except my own of course. You serve me now…"

"Like hell I do you-"

"Prostrate yourself before your new god, child."

A look of absolute horror on her face, the ranger found herself unable to resist the command.

"I'll have my acolytes bring some new clothes for you, and give you your weapons back."

Kirielle started sobbing uncontrollably.

"Ah, my dear, that is no way to react to the great future that has been set out before you! After all, I could have brought you back as a ghoul, skeleton, or some lesser type of undead. But you have been allowed to keep your form and intelligence, so that your unique skills can be better put to use to aid the Scourge. You will soon learn that all who serve me have a special place in our society. You will never eat, drink, sleep, or tire again as my servant, nor will you fear death through natural causes. These are the boons that I give to you. Serve me well, and you will gain power beyond your wildest dreams. Serve me poorly, and-"

A magical blast of energy shot out from the Frozen Throne, engulfing Serrax. The lesser lich had time for only one brief shriek before he was pulverized into nothingness.

"...serve me poorly, and you'll be lucky if mere oblivion is the only punishment you receive. By the way, did I mention that the post of Defender of Icecrown was just vacated? Would you like a promotion?"

**Chapter 1, One year later….**

Aramoor feared. It was an all-consuming, all-encompassing fear which flowed through him, permeated him. For he knew he was about to die.

He huddled in his tent, blankets wrapped around him, his tarnished armor providing little protection from the cold. Gods he had grown to hate the cold! He had grown to hate everything about this forsaken continent, from the abnormally short days to the almost constant snowstorms. And of course, there was always the undead.

They were everywhere in Northrend, a continual force of opposition. The continent crawled with the damned, with those who had fought against the Undead Scourge… and lost. Soon, Aramoor knew, he would be joining them.

"Arthas was a fool to have come here," Aramoor muttered out loud. And I was a fool to have followed him here, the footman amended to himself.

A bell tolled in the distance. It was time.

He shrugged off his blankets, checked his armor one last time, and thrust open the flap of his tent. Immediately a blast of ice-cold wind whipped him in the face, nearly knocking him off his feet despite his heavy armor. Aramoor gritted his teeth and pressed forward, through the dreary encampment towards a building that towered above the others. A town hall. From the top of it flew a tattered banner of the Alliance.

As Aramoor trudged through the muddy slush which passed for a street, he heard another coming up behind him. Hand on his sword hilt, he turned around. It was always good to be cautious in Northrend, even in the heart of an Alliance encampment. The undead occasionally tried to infiltrate plagued humans into their ranks, to spread terror and disease.

But Aramoor recognized the man who now approached him. He was a paladin from Cernick's battalion named Rolan. They had gone through training together back in Lordaeron.

"Aramoor! Glad I found you! We missed you at the service. The priest gave a really-"

"What do you want?" snapped Aramoor. He had known about the service, where a priest of the Light would bless the soldiers of Lordaeron before an upcoming battle. But religion was for those who had hope, who had faith. He had neither. Hope and faith did not belong in Northrend. Only the undead thrived here. Aramoor had grown to despise his fellows like Rolan, who thought they had a chance to live, to escape. Their optimism actually offended him.

Rolan sighed. "All right, Aramoor, no need to be so touchy. They can't fit all the troops in the town hall for a briefing. Since you're with Kappa company, I'm supposed to direct you to the north staging area. They'll brief you there."

Aramoor nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to go. But Rolan had one more thing to say.

"Aramoor! Good luck. In case we don't see each other again…I wish you well. May the Light always shine upon you."

Aramoor nodded again and left.

**Chapter 2**

"All right, you all know the situation," the officer said to the assembled troops.

The two hundred footmen of Kappa company stood at rigid attention on the icy tundra. A large but crude map of Northrend had been drawn in chalk on the side of a granite rock formation.

Aramoor knew the situation all too well. They were all going to die. Prince Arthas had disappeared after killing the dreadlord Mal'Ganis, leaving his expedition leaderless and stranded on Northrend. They had been attacked repeatedly by increasingly large numbers of the undead. Food was almost gone. The bitter cold claimed more lives every day. Scouts were sent out and did not come back. Slowly, the Scourge had tightened the noose around their doomed encampment. All exits were covered. They were trapped, outnumbered, cut off from the rest of the Alliance.

No contact had been made with Lordaeron since Arthas disappeared. The mages said that their magical sendings were being blocked. In all likelihood the Alliance leaders in Lordaeron did not know of their plight. They would not be sending help.

Or, perhaps, thought Aramoor ruefully, they do know of our plight. But they won't come to Northrend to save us. I wouldn't. Sane men do not travel to Northrend, unless they are fools like Rolan who believe their insane commanders, like Arthas.

Or unless they are like me, Aramoor reflected. Men who have nothing to live for.

He didn't join the Alliance army for glory, prestige, money, righteousness, or even revenge. He joined the army -- he volunteered to go to Northrend -- to die. Somehow, he had known the expedition would end in disaster.

His entire family had been killed by the Scourge in Lordaeron. The fields his family had tended for generations were laid waste. The barn he had helped his father build was burnt to ashes. He was alone in the world. It was as if a searing iron had been thrust into his heart, cauterizing his soul, his emotions, the whole of his being.

And as much as he wanted it all to end, as much as he wanted to embrace Death, still, he feared it. Fear was the only emotion he had left. That, and disgust, a feeling that flowed through him as he listened to his commanding officer.

"Now, it looks like the Scourge hasgot us boxed in, but now is not the time to lose hope! Their forces are spread out in preparation for a long siege. If we mass our troops we can easily break out of their encirclement, and make it to safety before they even realize what's happened."

Aramoor had to restrain himself from shouting a few choice expletives at the officer. Was the man stupid? Blind? If they had hope, it would be in the breakout. But there was no hope, for there was no way for them to "make it to safety" here. This was Northrend! _Northrend!_

Safety lay on the warm shores of Lordaeron, more than a thousand miles away. Their ships were gone and there was no time to build new ones--there was no safety, no hope, and no escape.

Aramoor already knew what would happen. They would flee, with the undead nipping at their heels, picking off stragglers, until they found a new place to hide. Eventually, the undead would find them of course. They always seemed to find them, no matter where they ran. It was as if they had a sixth sense, a way of sniffing out the living like a bloodhound stalking its prey.

And then the whole process would start over again. The encirclement, the desperate breakout, the stench of fear. Until finally…finally, there would be no one left to run.

"We're all going to die," muttered Aramoor, somewhat louder than he had meant.

The officer interrupted his briefing, trying to figure out who had spoken, but it was impossible to tell. Two hundred footmen with helmets that covered their faces stood silently at attention. The briefing resumed.

"Our main force, two thousand soldiers, will drive west, towards a big glacier our scouts found. They say the place is a natural fortress, easily defensible, so we'll stay there until help arrives from Lordaeron. To the north there are impassible mountains; to the south a snowy plain. It'll be our job to cover that snowy plain and protect the southern flank as the main force advances. We don't expect much organized resistance after we break through their siege force, but don't get overconfident. Scouts say we'll mostly be going up against skeletons and ghouls-- not much of a threat except in numbers, and certainly nothing we can't handle. Questions?"

There were none. They began the breakout.

**Chapter 3**

Aramoor savored the feeling of heat, so alien in this frigid land. As the Alliance encampment was consumed in the blazing inferno, he could not help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction. How he had hated living in that dirty, dreary place! The cramped buildings, lousy food, and drafty tents had all taken their toll on him. The settlement had been an unnatural, filthy stain on the pristine white quilt that was Northrend. But now the stain was being purged by fire, and the snow would soon reclaim its territory.

It was not the undead who had set the fire though -- the arsonists belonged to Kappa company.

The Alliance didn't care about the settlement falling into enemy hands, for the dead had little use for humanity's buildings. Indeed, Arthas's expedition had passed many abandoned, decaying villages during their journey across Northrend. These were remnants of a time when Northrend had been populated by primitive humans--fishermen and hunters--but now these people had all fallen under the sway of the Scourge.

The Alliance commanders had torched their own settlement to deliver a message: There was no turning back.

They were committed to the breakout now. It was their only hope.

And it started well. The undead besieging the settlement seemed surprised and confused at the Alliance forces taking the offensive. The few ghouls that stayed to fight were easily cut down. Even Aramoor the defeatist had to concede that the first part of the plan went perfectly.

When the two hundred footmen of Kappa company split off from the main force to cover the southern flank, morale was still high. It began to snow, but not enough to impede their advance. They made good time.

But by midday, the snow had ended, and the nightmare began.

It was a flat plain they traveled across, with no sign of danger. Any enemy approaching them would be spotted miles away, so nobody was expecting trouble. Of all the two hundred footmen, only Aramoor had his sword out of its sheath. For him, Northrend was never a place to let down your guard.

As it turned out, Aramoor's caution saved his life. When a dark figure suddenly erupted out of the snowdrift before him, he instinctively thrust out his arm to protect his face. His sword arm. The howling creature impaled itself on the end of Aramoor's sword, creating a gaping wound which would have immediately slain any living creature.

But this was not a living creature. Though hideously wounded, the ghoul still tried to claw at Aramoor's head. He had to get that thing _off_ his blade! Once, twice, thrice he slammed his broadsword (and the ghoul that was stuck to it) to the ground. Finally the thing shuddered one last time and was still.

But there were other ghouls erupting out of the snow now, hundreds of them…no, _thousands_ of them! His comrades' cries of shock and terror turned to cries of pain and death as the mass of horrifying undead tore into their ranks.

Aramoor knew that all was lost, that the moment of his death had come. Yet still he fought on, hacking at the ghouls with a ferocity born of desperation. A broad swipe from his sword decapitated a ghoul feasting on the remains of a Kappa company footman, and he was able to reverse the blade in time to parry a vicious blow from the ghoul's partner.

"Run, run, _run_ dammit!" Aramoor screamed at himself. He tore his way through the mass of attacking ghouls and dying footmen, trying to get out, to break out, before it was too late. All who stood in his way were cut down.

Finally he was through them, clear of them, but still he kept running. His heavy armor weighed him down, and his muscles were on fire, but he couldn't stop himself. He ran and ran and ran until he could run no further.

**Chapter 4**

Aramoor had to give credit to the leaders of the Undead Scourge. It had been a spectacular ambush. The ghouls had buried themselves deep in the snow, probably a few hours before Kappa company arrived. Since the undead did not need to breathe, they could remain buried indefinitely. The recent snowfall had covered up any traces of the ghouls' presence, and when the Alliance soldiers had unwittingly walked into their midst, the trap had been sprung.

It had all happened so fast, and now, Kappa company was gone. Of two hundred footmen, only Aramoor was still alive. He berated himself.

"Idiot! Why did you run away! You came here to die! Having second thoughts? Or are you just a coward?"

Those were interesting questions, but best pondered at another, safer time. The important thing was that he was alive and relatively unharmed. Not that it mattered, for he had only postponed the inevitable by running. He was still going to die, along with the rest of the expedition.

"Maybe the main force got wiped out too. Maybe I'm the only one left."

Well, there was only one way to find out. He would go to find the main Alliance army, if it still existed, and report to them the fate of Kappa company. It would be a good way to pass the time before he died.

**Chapter 5**

The glacier was awesome. It towered high above the frozen tundra of Northrend, its peak reaching out for the heavens. There was only a short, narrow pass up to the top, which meant the undead would have a hell of a time attacking the place.

That of course was why it was chosen as the objective of the Alliance breakout/offensive. Stay on top of the glacier, and wait out the undead until help arrived from Lordaeron… If help was coming at all. If the main Alliance force had survived, this was where they would be.

Aramoor was halfway up the icy peak when he encountered an Alliance patrol. They were the first living beings he had seen since the decimation of Kappa company, more than five hours ago, and for a moment all he could do was stop and marvel at their beauty. A dwarven rifleman stepped forward, his blunderbuss pointed at Aramoor but with the safety on.

"We saw ye from the summit and came to escort ye the rest of the way up. But first why don't ye take off that helmet so we can see yer not plagued."

Aramoor did as he was told, and the blunderbuss was lowered instantly. He was dirty, bloodied and unshaven, but definitely not plagued.

"Aramoor! Is that you?" a familiar voice called from the back of the Alliance patrol.

For the first time ever, Aramoor was glad to see Rolan the paladin. The holy man cast a healing spell that erased the battered footman's minor wounds, and together they started up the snowy slope.

"It's so good to see you again, Aramoor! But what are you doing here? Kappa company isn't due to rendezvous with us for another four hours. There isn't bad news I hope?"

So he told them. About the ambush, the thousands of ghouls, and running until finally making it to the glacier. By the time he had finished, Rolan's expression was grim.

"This is ill news indeed. The loss of Kappa company will be greatly felt by all. They died heroes deaths, and will be remembered as such."

Aramoor didn't think being massacred by ghouls was very heroic, but if the paladin wanted to cling to such delusions that was his business. They were nearing the glacier summit now, and it was an amazing sight that greeted them.

A new settlement was halfway constructed! Already several barracks and a town hall had been completed. A thick wooden barricade had also been thrown up, so even if the undead reached the summit they would be in for a nasty fight.

"Pretty impressive," Aramoor remarked to Rolan, gesturing at the settlement.

"Yes, isn't it? One thing's for sure, we don't have to worry about the undead anymore!"

"Are you so sure?" remarked the defeatist footman with more than a trace if bitterness.

"Now Aramoor, must you always be such a pessimist?" replied the paladin in a condescending tone. "Look at all we've accomplished here already! Do you really mean to tell me-"

"No Rolan, don't look at your pretty settlement! Look at the bottom of the glacier! Those undead you 'don't have to worry about' are on their way up to pay us a visit!"

"Somebody better get the Captain over here."

**Chapter 6**

Captain Cernick had been third in command of the expedition, after Arthas and Muradin. But with Arthas missing and Muradin dead, it was Cernick who had been placed in charge of the remnants of a once mighty army. They had come to Northrend with five thousand of the finest troops in the Alliance. Now only half that remained. Or, really only two thousand, since a few days ago five hundred of Muradin's dwarves had decided to strike out on their own under their leader Baelgun. Aramoor gave them little chance of surviving more than a week.

The number of Alliance soldiers paled in comparison to the number of undead -- this was the homeland of the Scourge after all. Cernick's troops looked on in growing horror as the swelling mass of the damned was joined by ever larger groups of ghouls. Scouts estimated one thousand, then two thousand, then three thousand ghouls. When the Scourge had amassed four thousand flesh-eating killing machines, they began their attack.

Aramoor found himself with Rolan's troops on the center barricade.

"Just sit tight and don't do anything stupid," Rolan advised his troops. "Let them come to us."

Good advice, thought Aramoor. But not enough to save us. Memories of the slaughter of Kappa company flooded through him, of his comrades' deathcries, of claws tearing at metal armor, of the unearthly howls of the dead. Soon it would all be happening again. He felt his fear welling up inside him, and realized he was visibly shaking. Looking at the other Alliance troops, he saw he was not the only one.

What happened next was surreal. The sun had begun to set, but it would be a few hours before only the stars provided illumination. The sky had turned an angry orange, and it was from the direction of the sunset the undead came in their massive numbers.

There was no discipline, no real cohesion in the ranks of the damned. They charged as a disorganized mass up the glacier, screeching inhuman cries all the while, and with no other goal in their simple minds than to rip the enemies of the Scourge to ribbons.

As the undead made it halfway up the glacier, the lead ghoul suddenly exploded. Huh? Aramoor looked into the ranks of the Alliance troops and had his answer.

Mortars. Several dozen mortar teams had lined up, and they opened up a terrifying barrage of destruction on the massed enemy troops as they came into range. The ghouls had no way of firing back, and no way of dodging the hot death being lobbed at them, so it quickly became a slaughter.

Ghoul after ghoul after ghoul met a grisly end, but for every one that fell, two more seemed to take its place. They clambered over the shattered bodies of their brethren, and continued their relentless climb up the glacier.

Now nearly to the summit, the ghouls came within range of Alliance riflemen. The air became filled with the sounds of the business ends of blunderbusses and the smell of gunpowder. The firepower now being directed at the undead was amazing to behold -- Aramoor had never seen anything like it. For a minute he thought the undead might be totally decimated before they even reached the Alliance settlement.

It was a naïve hope, almost immediately discarded. For the fire from the mortars slowed and then, a few seconds later, ceased totally. They had run out of ammunition.

The fire from the riflemen began to slacken off as well, and there were still several hundred ghouls to be dealt with. It was going to get real ugly, real fast for Aramoor and the other footmen manning the barricade.

The ghouls were within four hundred meters of the barricade when a rain of arrows started dropping them. What the hell? Aramoor didn't realize their expedition had included any archers, but it was a welcome surprise. Arrow after arrow thudded into the ranks of the undead, dealing terrible damage.

Screeching in frustration and rage, their prey denied to them, the last of the ghouls fell dead into the snow. They had been within a mere twenty meters of the barricade. A ragged cheer came from the ranks of the Alliance soldiers, for it had been a sound victory.

**Chapter 7**

"How could the undead be so stupid?"

That was the question on everyone's mind. The glacier was clearly impregnable, but yet the Scourge had attacked anyway. Was their hatred of the living really so intense? Or were their commanders simply incompetent?

Aramoor decided it definitely had to be the former. The brilliant ambush of Kappa company had ingrained a healthy respect in him for whatever tacticians directed the actions of the Scourge. Aramoor bitterly wished that the Alliance leaders had been so gifted. But that fool Captain Cernick had ordered a celebration! A victory party, here on Northrend!

No matter that their food supply was almost gone; that their ammunition _was_ gone! Apparently Aramoor was the only one who believed the undead could return at any moment. Everyone else seemed to think the Scourge was finished.

"There's no way they can take the kind of losses they took today and keep fighting," Cernick had assured his troops after the battle. The soldiers echoed his thoughts.

"We beat em, we finally beat em!"

"We'll all be heroes when we get back to Lordaeron!"

"Wait'll I tell my friends back home about this!"

Aramoor was disgusted. As the idiotic euphoria spread through the Alliance army, he sought refuge in the newly constructed barracks. He had no love for parties, not now, not after all that had happened. His love of life had died with his family, and that was that.

Gods he was tired of it all--the idiot commanders, the fighting, the dying, the running, everything. In the space of only one day he had fought in two major battles and nearly died half a dozen times. It was too much.

Without bothering to take off his armor, he collapsed onto the nearest bunk. He was delighted to find the sheets cozy and warm. At last, he would have some peace today.

He had just settled down to sleep when the barracks door burst open. Panic gripped him as he fumbled for his sword. Had the fool Cernick even bothered to post guards? Had the entire settlement been overrun? He half expected to see a pack of ghouls rush into the room.

He was almost disappointed when he saw it was only Rolan the paladin. The holy man drunkenly staggered into the barracks, both hands holding half-full bottles of whiskey.

"Ah, Aramoor mah boy! Where have yah been?" slurred the drunken man. "Cernick puts on one helluva party. The mages are even putting on ah magic light show. You need to tah come drink with me and tha boys, take yer mind off yer troubles, yah know?"

"I thought paladins were forbidden from imbibing liquor," Aramoor replied coolly as he got up from his bunk.

"Nah, a little liquor nevah hurt no one! No sir! Come on Aramoor, even the stoic high elves ah getting' drunk! You need tah _live_ a little!"

Pushing past the paladin, Aramoor replied, "I'm already dead."

With the celebration now in full swing, Aramoor realized that the barracks would not grant him the privacy he wished. He knew there was only one place the revelers would not go, and that was his destination.

The glacier slopes were littered with dead ghouls and pieces of dead ghouls. They had been left where they had fallen -- there was no need to bury them, for the snow would do that within a few hours. The revelers avoided the place like the plague -- they wanted to forget the horrors of the past few weeks and the past few hours especially.

Aramoor, on the other hand, wanted to remember. Looking at the death, the destruction, he would remember why he came to Northrend. To die. To be with his dead family.

As night descended on the desolate, lifeless continent, the Alliance troops tried to beat the cold darkness with liquor, wild debauchery, and lights. Lights were everywhere on the glacier summit-- in torches, flaming braziers, and energetic sparkles created by mages that illuminated the starry night with fluorescent colors. The flame of life, so abnormal, so wrong on Northrend, shed a bright, comforting radiance over the small bastion of humanity.

Aramoor, alone, turned his back on the lights, closed his eyes, and remembered.

**Chapter 8**

"Mmmm, strawberry pie, my favorite! Oh, Aramoor, you're the best brother ever!"

And she smiled that smile that made him feel warm all over because he knew, he _knew_ she was happy and it was because of him. To feel wanted, to feel loved…it was sweet, oh so sweet, like strawberry pie.

Bright, warm sunlight shined in through the kitchen window, and outside he could see his father tending the fields. It was an important day-- his sister's sixteenth birthday--and he wanted it to be perfect. He'd saved the money he'd made working as an apprentice to the local blacksmith, and now he had enough to buy Christina her present.

The ruby necklace would be expensive, but his sister's happiness was worth so much more. Now all that remained for him to do was pick up the present at the jeweler's shop, in the nearby town of Hearthglen.

"Just wait, Christina. I'll have an even better present for you today, after I go into town."

"Oh I can't wait!"

"Tell father I'll help him with his chores after I get back. Then we can have your birthday party when we're done."

He turned to go, but then smiled and said in mock severity, "Oh, and don't eat that pie all by yourself, like last time! We wouldn't want you getting fat!"

She laughed, that sweet, musical laugh of hers, "Oh, Aramoor, you're too much. I'll leave plenty of pie for you, don't worry!"

Still smiling, he waved goodbye to her, and set off for town. He set his horse on an easy pace, and watched the beautiful Lordaeron countryside slide by. Taking a deep breath of fresh summer air, he closed his eyes and reveled in the perfect, idyllic life he led.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he said to the horse.

Shouts from up ahead startled him out of his reverie. The town square of Hearthglen was swarming with panicked villagers and…soldiers? What were Alliance soldiers doing here? Were the orcs on the warpath again, threatening to disrupt their pastoral paradise?

Then a thoroughly nauseating smell assaulted his nostrils. Looking towards the back of the town square he noticed a pile of bodies, _human_ bodies burning. As he watched, Alliance footmen threw another corpse onto the heap, a corpse which he recognized as the Mayor of Hearthglen. What the hell was going on here?

An Alliance officer spotted him and shouted a command. Immediately a squad of footmen surrounded him and forced him off his horse at swordpoint. He found himself pinned to the ground by two burly soldiers.

"Check him!" shouted the officer. A red-haired Alliance trooper with an ugly scar running down his face knelt down beside Aramoor and stared intently at him.

After a few seconds the trooper shook his head and got up. "He's clean, let him go."

Angrily, Aramoor got to his feet. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Just precautions," replied the Alliance officer. "We're looking for people with a slightly purplish or greenish tint to their skin. They're plagued see, and we got orders to find 'em and kill 'em before they turn into the undead! If you know anyone you think might be plagued, tell us where they are, and we'll take care of 'em."

Aramoor's mouth went dry. Earlier that morning he _had_ noticed a slight purplish tinge to Christina. Or had it just been his imagination?

"This…this plague, there's a cure right?" Aramoor asked hoarsely.

The officer's hard demeanor softened for a moment. "Sorry son, there's no cure yet. If you know someone who's plagued, the best thing you can do for 'em is tell us where they are. You'll be saving 'em from a fate worse than death, trust me."

Aramoor felt his world crashing down around him. He had to see Christina, he had to!

"In any case, this entire town has been placed under quarantine, so you won't be able to leave until--hey!"

Quickly Aramoor grabbed the reins of his horse and mounted it. Several Alliance soldiers tried to stop him, and were nearly ridden down for their efforts. It was a very desperate young man that set off at a breakneck speed towards his family's farm.

The sight of burning fields, slaughtered farm animals and his father's half eaten corpse greeted him at the entrance to the farm. Apparently the undead had been here, but the main house seemed untouched. She might still be alive!

He burst into the house, and his heart sank. The room had been brightly decorated for Christina's birthday party later in the day. Her half-eaten strawberry pie sat on the kitchen table, and Christina herself sat in a nearby chair, arms wrapped tightly around her chest and shivering. She had a definite purplish tinge to her skin now, and the look she gave him was heartbreakingly sad. It was the look of someone who knew they were about to die.

He ran over to her, grasping her in his arms.

"Christina, oh Christina!"

"I'm, si-sick, Aramoor," she whispered weakly.

"I know," he replied gently.

They didn't say anything after that. Aramoor wanted to comfort her, to tell her how much he loved her, but, looking at her, the words wouldn't come. Instead he held her tightly and listened as her breathing became more shallow and her heartbeat more erratic. Finally she gave a sigh, and went limp.

Aramoor died on that day, at that moment. There was nothing left for him in the world, he was certain.

The Alliance soldiers from town had followed him, and tried to take Christina from him, to add her to their _pile_. For a moment the urge to kill was strong and clear and pure, but only for a moment. Christina was gone; it was only an empty husk the Alliance soldiers took away.

With nothing else to do, he wept unashamedly.

**Chapter 9**

Back on the glacier slope, back on Northrend, Aramoor realized he was crying. The cold night air made the tears burn on his face, but he was beyond pain now. For a while he just sat and stared at the stars, at all the hopes of his life that were so far out of reach, forever.

But in the pale moonlight he gradually became aware that he was not alone. A dark figure, still as night, was regarding him from a nearby rock outcropping. Slowly, quietly, he slid his sword out of its sheath.

"There's no need for that, human," whispered the dark figure in a feminine voice. "I'm with the Alliance."

"Is that so?" retorted Aramoor. "Why don't you step out of the shadows then, and tell me what you were doing spying on me."

The figure gracefully leapt off the rock outcropping and into the dim moonlight. Aramoor was startled to see the delicate features of a high elf. Curiously he looked her over, for he had never seen one of her kind up close before. The high elves rarely left their forested kingdom of Quel'thalas, save for a few priests and wizards who went to study in the Magicracy of Dalaran. Some of those priests and wizards ended up joining the Alliance -- in fact a few of them had even joined the expedition to Northrend, but they always kept to themselves.

"I wasn't spying on you," the elf said softly, in a musical voice.

"Then what were you-"

"Watching the slope in case the undead returned. Captain Cernick asked me to."

"Oh."

"But I'm pretty sure Cernick didn't ask _you_ to watch the slope, human. _Kara shalas!_ What troubles you so much that you would come here, alone in the cold night, and weep for hours on end?"

"You were here the whole time?!" growled Aramoor, angry that someone had intruded on his mourning.

"We Pathfinders of the elven ranger corps are skilled in the art of camouflage and concealment. I'm surprised you noticed me at all. I didn't mean to intrude upon your grief-"

"Too late for that!"

"Yes, well I'm sorry. But I _was_ ordered to watch the slope. I'll leave if you want-"

"No, no, you have a job to do," sighed Aramoor. "Guess I'll head back to the barracks; it looks like Cernick's party is finally winding down so I can get some sleep. Goodbye, uh…"

"Bryony."

"Goodbye Bryony. My name's-"

"Aramoor, I know. I overheard you and Rolan talking on the slopes earlier today, though you probably didn't see me. I was the one who spotted you, and sent Rolan's patrol to meet you halfway up the glacier."

"Jeez! Do you know what color underwear I'm wearing too?! For someone who claims not to spy on people--"

Bryony laughed a sweet, musical laugh that sounded like…no, it couldn't be…

"Christina?"

"What? I'm sorry, I guess I'm not as fluent in humanspeak as I thought. What does 'Christina' mean?"

Aramoor suddenly had the urge to talk to this woman, to get to know her, to hear her voice…

"Bryony, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"What're you doing in the Alliance? I mean, why…why did you volunteer for the Northrend expedition?"

"To find a friend."

"This friend must be pretty important to you…"

Bryony sighed. "She was my best friend. We had a lot of fun together, we got into a lot of trouble together…" The ranger sighed again, and turned her gaze to the stars, lost in memories.

"She traveled to Northrend over a year ago, before anyone had even heard of the Undead Scourge, and no one ever heard from her again. Of course," Bryony said bitterly, "I'm sure the undead must have killed her by now. But I had to know. Her name is…was…Kirielle."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Aramoor, and he meant it. Somehow, talking to Bryony made the wound in his own heart hurt so much less. Her voice was so similar to Christina's… He had come to Northrend certain he wanted to die, but now…

"So what are you doing in Northrend, Aramoor?"

"I…I don't know, Bryony. I thought I knew, but…I just don't know anymore."

"Hmmm…"

The footman shook his head. "My family died in Hearthglen, and I thought I wanted to die too. It all seemed so hopeless, and…I guess it still is, but-"

"There's always hope Aramoor," said Bryony, suddenly intense. "How could we go on, if not for hope?"

"I did."

"That's not right Aramoor. You have to find what it is you want in life -- there's always something! And you have to pursue it! Life is far, far too precious to be squandered and-"

Aramoor realized he was crying again. "What's gotten into me?" he demanded of himself, but he had no answer.

"I miss them so much, Bryony, so much…"

"I know," said the ranger gently, as she wrapped her cloak around him. "I know."

**Chapter 10**

The morning saw Aramoor and Bryony conscripted for scouting duty, as they were the only people in the encampment without hangovers. Normally, Aramoor despised scouting duty, but if it meant passing more time with Bryony, he didn't mind. Not at all.

After spending the night on the slope with the high elf, Aramoor had had to rethink a lot of things, about himself and his future. The pessimism and gloominess which had shrouded his heart had begun to lift, and just being around the ranger, being close to her, made Aramoor feel alive again.

As the two of them waited to be briefed in Cernick's command tent, Aramoor got his first good look at the Pathfinder in daytime. Her clothes were simple, yet practical and light. She wore a green cloak with black flecks on it that somehow made her blend in with even Northrend's snow-white terrain. She carried a long bow, a large quiver of arrows, and a deadly-looking belt knife. Her boots were doeskin, her gloves soft padded leather, and she looked every bit the high elven ranger.

But it was her face that held Aramoor's attention. As with all elves, her features were fair. Her hair was a golden mane the color of sunshine, her piercing blue eyes shone with self-confidence, and her long delicate ears honored her elven heritage. The footman felt his throat tighten gazing upon her exotic beauty.

"Good morning Bryony, and ahh, what's your name again, soldier?"

As Captain Cernick entered the tent, the ranger and footman snapped to attention.

"Private Aramoor sir, Kappa company."

As the golden-armored officer sat down at his desk in front of them, Aramoor couldn't help but notice the black circles under the man's bloodshot eyes. Apparently more than a little liquor had been passed around at the party last night.

"Kappa company, huh? So you're the one Rolan's been talking about. He's been in here pestering me to recommend you for a medal you know, when we get back to Lordaeron."

Aramoor said nothing, so the Captain continued.

"Tragic what happened to your fellow soldiers. Really. I'm sure King Terenas will construct some kind of monument in honor of Kappa company's heroic sacrifice. Or at the very least commission a commemorative plaque or two. We take care of our own in the Alliance, you know."

Aramoor felt disgust welling up inside him, a typical reaction when he encountered Alliance officers. He was about to make a few cutting remarks to Cernick, but Bryony intervened.

Clearing her throat, she said, "You asked us to report here for scouting duty, sir?"

"Er, right. So I did. Let's get down to business then, shall we?"

The Captain spread out a large map of Northrend on his desk, pointing to a location a few kilometers east of their new encampment.

"I need you to go here. While we were, um, relocating to our current position, we came across an old goblin zeppelin. The thing must've crashed years ago, but maybe it's still, um, airworthy. Airworthy is a word, right?"

Bryony sighed.

"Well anyway, when we first found the thing we were in a bit of a hurry, so we didn't get to look it over. Now you've got the job. Maybe if we get it working, we can re-establish contact with Lordaeron, you know?"

Aramoor was suddenly interested. "You mean we can escape? Get off Northrend?"

"Well, err, yes. Hopefully. I mean, once King Terenas knows we need a rescue fleet, it'll all work itself out, you know? Any more questions? No? Good. The Pathfinder outranks you Private, so just follow her orders and don't get yourselves killed. Dismissed."

**Chapter 11**

As the pair trekked across the arctic tundra, Aramoor tried to strike up a conversation.

"So how is it that you became a ranger? Why not a sorceress or priestess or--"

She laughed Christina's laugh, and Aramoor's heart skipped a beat.

"I never had much talent for magic, Aramoor, so I doubt I'd make a good sorceress. Besides, I could never stand to be cooped up in some library, studying dusty tomes all day. I have to be outside, outdoors…in contact with Nature you know? That's why I became a ranger. We are the epitome out outdoorsmen, or ahem, outdoorswomen. We achieve balance and belonging through our friendship with the natural world."

"I'm not sure I understand," said the footman.

"It's like this. We are all children of Nature; Nature gives us life. To understand our life, our origin, our place in this world, we must understand Nature. Or at least that is what we rangers believe. To live in harmony with Nature is to live in harmony with oneself. I can walk into a forest and identify all the birds and their songs, I can track any animal across any terrain, I can tell whether it's going to rain tomorrow or not. These are the skills that rangers possess."

"But that's not all of course," added Aramoor. "I saw what you and your archer brethren did during the ghoul assault on the glacier. You decimated them, and saved us footmen a real nasty fight."

The ranger laughed her musical laugh again. "My 'archer brethren'? Who would they be? There are no archers in this expedition, myself excepted of course."

Aramoor stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with shock. "You…you mean…that _entire_ arrow barrage…was just you?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded. "Glad you liked the show."

"You're…you're a hero!" breathed Aramoor. "You should be the one getting a medal when we get back to Lordaeron!"

"'When we get back to Lordaeron?' Aramoor! That almost sounded like an optimistic comment from you!" she said, smiling.

"Sorry, I won't let it happen again," he said, winking at her.

"Hey, look! It's the zeppelin!" the Pathfinder said, pointing. Half buried in the snow, its wire frame looked to be mostly intact. Closer examination revealed no sign of the crew; Aramoor could only surmise that they had survived the crash or their corpses had been claimed by the Scourge.

"Yeah, all we need is to bring some dwarven engineers here and they can get this thing fixed up in no time!" remarked Bryony cheerfully.

"And we can go home," Aramoor gasped. "We can go home! They'll send a rescue fleet and…and we'll go home! Oh, I never thought I'd see our salvation so close, here in Northrend. I miss Lordaeron! I guess I never really realized how much it was home for me."

"Yeah, me too. I miss Quel'thalas; it's not like Northrend. This continent feels…wrong. Like the land is dying. It's hard for me to commune with Nature here."

She sighed. "Well, there's going to be a blizzard later today, so I guess we should hurry back to Cernick with the good news."

"Maybe he'll commission some commemorative plaques in our honor!" Aramoor giggled.

Gods it felt good to be alive again! The wound in his heart was nearly healed. The feelings of total, utter hopelessness had been replaced by…what? Contentment? Whatever it was, it felt good.

**Chapter 12**

"So you worship Nature?" asked Aramoor as they started their trek back to the Alliance encampment.

"Some high elves do, but not all. Most high elves worship the Light. And then there's the Sunwell…"

"Sunwell?"

"Yeah, it's the magical fountain from which we draw our immortality and mystical powers. The Sunwell is like the focal point for our worship of both Nature and the Light. It's like sum of who we are as a race."

"And you worship it?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Protecting the Sunwell is part of the vows I've taken as a ranger. If ever an enemy threatened the Well, it would be the ranger corps, our most elite warriors, who would be entrusted with its defense. When the orcs invaded Quel'thalas, they got close to the Sunwell. But we rallied under a Pathfinder named Sylvanas and counterattacked. Wiped out their whole bloody invasion force; it was beautiful."

"So you fought in the orc wars?"

"Yeah, and against the trolls before that. But _none_ of it was like this Northrend madness."

"Well, there's the glacier," Aramoor said pointing up ahead. "Looks like Cernick was right. The Scourge _is_ finished. No sign of them on our patrol, not even old tracks. Maybe we'll be able to come down from the glacier now, and rebuild our fleet. No need to wait for help from Lordaeron!"

"I hope you're right," replied Bryony, "I sure am--hey! What's that?"

On the glacier slope, a patch of snow had recently shifted to reveal a hard stone surface underneath. Warily, the ranger approached. She carefully knelt down and started brushing more snow off the gray-green surface.

"Be careful Bryony," Aramoor cautioned. "There are all kinds of buried crypts and tombs in this land. You wouldn't want to disturb any guardians or restless dead."

The high elf slowly stood up, shaking her head.

"It couldn't be…"

"What? What couldn't be?"

Bryony suddenly turned to face him, her face pale, her eyes intense.

"Aramoor, we've got to get back to Cernick and tell him -- aww _hell_!"

Aramoor saw them about the same time that Bryony did. Necromancers. Hundreds of grim, black-robed men coming _out of_ a hole at the bottom of the glacier. It was then that the revelation hit Aramoor, chilling him to the bone, and he had an explanation for the mysterious stone surface. The glacier upon which their new settlement rested was not really a glacier at all. It was just an icy covering.

And buried beneath that vast expanse of ice and snow was a necropolis of the Undead Scourge. One far, far bigger than they had ever encountered before.

Bryony already had her longbow out, and was loosing arrows with devastating accuracy into the ranks of the black mages.

"Run to the settlement!" she shouted. "Tell Cernick to get his troops off this bloody deathtrap of a glacier _now_! I'll stay here and hold them off for as long as I can!"

Aramoor firmly shook his head. "It's suicide to stay here, Bryony-"

"_Go_ Aramoor! That's an order! I need to buy Cernick time-"

"With your life?!" screamed Aramoor.

"Yes," she replied coldly. She briefly stopped her attack to pierce him with a gaze that even her deadly serrated arrows could not match. Looking into those blue eyes, so full of fierce determination, he could not help but obey her command.

He ran for the glacier summit, cursing himself every step of the way.

**Chapter 13**

Panic gripped the Alliance settlement. Footmen rushed to get into their armor while dwarven marksmen, lacking of gunpowder, fixed their rifles with bayonets. Officers shouted orders and tried to get their troops into formation, but they were mostly ignored.

Aramoor stood grimly in Cernick's command tent, watching with growing disgust as the Captain and his advisors made battle plans. Finally he couldn't take it any longer.

"You idiots!" screamed Aramoor. All heads turned towards him. "Bryony sacrificed her life so you could escape, and here you are planning an attack! Did you listen to anything I've said? This glacier is a bloody _necropolis_. You fools actually think you can win?"

"Of course we can win," replied Cernick smoothly. "Scouts say two thousand necromancers have massed at the bottom of the glacier. That's it! Not even an escort to protect them. The footmen alone should be able to rout that rabble, but even if they can't we've got plenty of reserves to finish the job."

"And what about the necropolis?"

"Um, I find the very idea absurd. Every necropolis we've encountered before has been floating. Why would this one be buried? And anyway, I simply can't believe that a necropolis as big as a bloody glacier exists! Your ranger friend must've been mistaken."

Aramoor stormed out, angry, furious in fact. The wound in his heart had been reopened, and it hurt worse than ever before. He couldn't mourn Bryony; he wasn't ready for that yet. But he could avenge her.

Or could he? Her life was worth far more than all of the unlives of the Scourge put together. No matter how may undead soldiers he killed, he would never be able to bring the ranger back.

If ever there had been a hero on this misadventure of an expedition, it had been her. But he was no hero, for already his old friends Hopelessness and Fear were coming back to resume their vigil over his heart. He was dying again, dead again. His anger dissipated and his fatalism returned.

"There's always hope Aramoor," Bryony had told him. "How could we go on, if not for hope?"

How indeed.

The Alliance forces had finally gotten themselves organized, and a trumpet blared, sounding the call to advance. Aramoor found himself in the company of Rolan's troops.

"Stick together, don't let them isolate you," the paladin told his men. "Necromancers have no armor and weak ranged attacks, so our best bet is to charge them and cut them down before they can do much damage."

The Alliance troops charged down the slope, shouting war cries and gaining momentum. Seemingly in no hurry, the necromancers trod up the slope to meet them, leaning heavily on their black staves.

Aramoor estimated it would be three minutes before the armies clashed. Two minutes. One minute.

Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of arcane chanting. Aramoor shivered at the sound of the Black Arts being practiced, but he had no time to ponder what spell was being cast. The Alliance troops were committed to battle now by the momentum of their charge -- it would be impossible for them to pull back even if they were ordered to.

Thirty seconds before the two sides met...

Without warning all of the dark wizards raised their staves at once, and their chanting stopped. Aramoor had a very bad feeling about--

Skeletons, skeletons, _SKELETONS_!! Skeletons thrust themselves out of the ground by the _thousands_!

"How, how, how!?" cried Aramoor, despairing. The necromancers would need a huge amount of corpses nearby to raise so many; how had they done it?!

The undead warriors slammed into ranks of Cernick's soldiers, and soon all was chaos. What the skeletons lacked in intelligence and weaponry, they made up for in sheer numbers and ferocity.

Aramoor found himself fighting a desperate battle against four skeletal foes and the wizard who had raised them. The skeleton on his right launched a clumsy attack with its…claw? He hacked the bony limb off, pausing for a second to take a better look at his fleshless opponents.

They had been ghouls once, he realized; the same ghouls that had attacked the glacier earlier in an apparently suicidal assault.

"Only fools believe they will face our armies but once," sneered the necromancer Aramoor was fighting. The footman responded by delivering a savage blow to the mage, cutting through the man's wooden stave and his neck as well. Surprise etched on his face, the wizard clutched his mortal wound and dropped into the snow.

"By the Gods, there were four thousand ghouls in that attack!" Aramoor breathed, realizing the possibilities.

Two skeletons slashed at Aramoor's chest, but he was able to beat back their blows while doing some quick mathematical calculations in his head.

Four thousand dead ghouls equals eight thousand skeletons. Plus two thousand necromancers. For a grand total of _ten thousand_ Scourge troops!

Versus two thousand tired Alliance soldiers. Half of whom were dwarven marksmen or mortar teams with no ammunition. Aramoor's heart sank. All was lost.

**Chapter 14**

The footman's respect for whatever tacticians led Scourge increased a dozen-fold, for surely this had been their plan all along. The suicidal ghoul attack had been merely a ploy to deprive the Alliance expedition of irreplaceable resources, like ammunition. It also served to deposit four thousand corpses right on their doorstep for the necromancers to use.

This was the time for Captain Cernick to rally his troops and lead an organized retreat, for only decisive leadership could save the expedition now. Desperately, Aramoor looked for the golden-armored officer in the swirling jumble of combatants, but he was nowhere to be found.

Either the man had run away, or he was already dead.

"Damn," muttered the footman. He racked his brain, trying to think of some way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, but nothing came to him.

"Aramoor! _Aramoor!!_"

It was Rolan. The paladin was beset by more than a dozen skeletons, and before a horrified Aramoor could react, the undead had knocked the warhammer from the holy man's hands and cut him to pieces.

Aramoor had never really liked the paladin, but yet Rolan had always been friendly and courteous to him. Were all the people in his life fated to die at the hands of the Scourge? First they had taken his beloved family--his father, his young sister with so much of her life before her. Then they had taken the beautiful, brave Bryony who had touched his soul even in the brief time he had known her. And now they had taken Rolan too.

Everywhere Aramoor looked, his comrades were being slaughtered. To his left a group of fifty dwarven riflemen were being hit hard by a horde of skeletons. Lacking ammunition, the bayonets the dwarves were using as weapons did pitifully little damage to their opponents.

To his right a band of ten knights, fighting back to back, were being overwhelmed by more than two hundred skeletal warriors.

A lone priest ran past him, followed by a group of jeering necromancers. Suddenly one of the wizards cast a spell, and the priest cried out in pain and collapsed, crippled by the necromancer's dark energies.

The Alliance troops fought on, but it was a hopeless battle with only one possible outcome. Already they had been pushed up the glacier slope, nearly to their encampment.

The undead tried and tried to kill Aramoor, but he refused to die. He had gotten quite good with his sword during the events of the past few days, and now he wielded it with deadly skill. All Scourge soldiers who came within his reach met a swift death.

At last the battle spilled into the Alliance encampment, and Aramoor found himself taking shelter in the doorway of a dwarven workshop. By defending the doorway, the skeletons could only come at him one at a time, and from one direction. But his sword arm was aching and he bled from a dozen minor wounds. He needed time to think, to find a way out of --

Hmmm. The workshop was packed with dwarven steam tanks! Their primary use was for destroying buildings, but after the defeat of Mal'Ganis they had seen little use. Captain Cernick had sent their crews out to fight with the rest of the dwarves on the glacier slope, for the tanks' siege cannons were highly ineffective against anything other than stationary structures.

"But then," Aramoor mused, "I don't really need the cannon." An insane plan formed in his mind. Finishing off the skeleton he had been fighting, he slammed shut the workshop door and bolted it.

It took him a minute to find a steam tank in good condition, and another minute to figure out how to operate it. But as an apprentice to the local blacksmith in Hearthglen he had gained some basic knowledge of dwarven machinery, and soon he had the thing running. There was no time to open the workshop's large iron gate, so instead he _smashed_ through the wooden wall of the building, flattening the undead that had gathered outside.

Suddenly he was the primary target of hundreds of Scourge warriors, but the steam tank's thick metal armor protected him from harm. Steering the steel behemoth towards the slope where the battle still raged, Aramoor floored the accelerator pedal.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised by a mechanical juggernaut of death plowing down the glacier -- the Alliance soldiers or the Undead Scourge. Footmen and riflemen desperately leapt to the side as the dwarven contraption picked up speed. Even the necromancers lost their calm demeanor as they frantically fought amongst themselves to get out of the way. The skeletons however, were too stupid to realize the imminent danger, and made no attempts at self-preservation. Aramoor ploughed through them by the dozen, creating a gaping hole in the ranks of the undead.

Finally the steam tank reached the base of the glacier and sped out onto the snowy plain. The engine had started to smoke, perhaps from all the damage the tank had taken, and finally, it died. When Aramoor got out of the broken vehicle, he was a good three kilometers from the glacier and there were no undead in sight. Once again, he had survived against all odds.

**Chapter 15**

The blizzard swept through the desolate lands of Northrend with terrible fury. Alone, Aramoor trudged through the snow, pushing against the powerful wind.

Despite his spectacular escape from the glacier summit, he was still just as doomed as the other members of the expedition had been. Aramoor doubted that any of his comrades had made it off the slopes; they had all been dead or dying when he left them. He was the expedition now; once again, the only survivor, probably the only living human on the whole of Northrend.

It made him feel so small, so insignificant, as though the massive continent actually, personally hated him and wished him harm.

He ached from the wounds he'd received in combat, and regretted the loss of his sword. To his horror he had discovered that the blade had inadvertently been left behind in the rush to get the steam tank working. He had seen many small caves where he could take refuge from the biting wind, but what he really needed was heat. His hands and feet were becoming numb from the freezing cold. He knew if he didn't find a source of warmth soon that frostbite would take his fingers and toes -- perhaps other parts of him too. He had no flint and tinder to start a fire, not that any fire would last long in this savage storm. Truly, if the undead didn't kill him, the cold would.

He had no destination and no plan; the brutal snowstorm made visibility impossible after just a few meters in any case. He wandered aimlessly, alone, unarmed, without food, without warmth, without hope, for hours on end.

As night fell and the blizzard became more unbearable, Aramoor felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. The hopelessness of his situation and the bitter cold were slowly sapping what was left of his strength. It wouldn't be long now before Death found him. His heavy armor weighed him down and provided little protection from the subzero temperature, so he stripped out of it and pressed onward, now wearing nothing more than a simple set of woolen clothing.

He was so tired, and so sleepy -- more than he had ever been in his life. But he knew if he went to sleep now that it would be his final sleep -- a sleep he would never wake up from. But then again, why should he care? Why was he fighting so hard against Death when he had nothing, _nothing_ left?

He suddenly stumbled and fell into a snowdrift, and found to his surprise that his muscles wouldn't obey him when he tried to get up. He lacked the energy to utter the string of expletives he wanted to shout, so he just thought them instead, and with one…Herculean effort…he was back on his feet.

He started to press forward once more, but found he just didn't care anymore. He no longer feared Death.

He gave a final, pitiful cry -- a summation of all his grief, his sorrow, his ruined hopes. It was immediately, greedily snatched up by the howling Northrend wind.

Falling to his knees, he prepared to let the cold take him. Then he noticed a dim figure ahead, slowly coming towards him, barely visible through the growing darkness and furious blizzard. Was he hallucinating? Was it Death, come to take him? As the figure came closer he saw it was tall and cloaked. A necromancer, he decided.

So, the Scourge wanted him first! Well, he could live with that. Or more appropriately; die with that. Once the prospect of becoming one of the Scourge's soldiers had thoroughly disgusted him. Now…now, like with everything else, he realized he just didn't care. He gave in to his hopelessness, closed his eyes and waited for the end.

But after thirty seconds, the end hadn't come.

"What now?" thought Aramoor irritably. Opening his eyes, he saw the cloaked figure passing him by; apparently he hadn't been seen due to the poor visibility.

Well he wasn't going to stand for that! With a sudden surge of energy he didn't know he had, he found himself on his feet and running at the necromancer. He grabbed the man's shoulder and whirled him around, so that they stood face to face, and --

_Bryony!!_

It couldn't be! He half expected that he had gone mad, that this was a ghost, an illusion from the Heavens. But when he reached out to touch her face, she was real. Somehow, by some wonderful, Light-blessed miracle, the Pathfinder had survived.

The two of them stood staring at each other, neither saying a word. It was then that he noticed her eyes had a glazed look to them; that she gazed at him dumbly, uncomprehendingly. Looking her over, he saw that she was in even worse shape than he was. She had several minor wounds, but it was the cold that had done this to her -- she was suffering from the early stages of hypothermia, which brought on stupor and extreme weariness. If he hadn't stopped her, she probably would have collapsed within a few minutes, never to rise again.

He had to find some way to warm her before it was too late!

"Bryony! It's me Aramoor!" he shouted above the howling storm. "Can you follow me?"

No answer. The ranger continued to stare at him blankly. Sighing, the footman knew what he had to do.

Mustering the last of his strength, he grabbed the Pathfinder, slinging her limp form over his shoulder. The added weight was almost more than he could bear in his weakened state, but from the very depths of his being he was able to muster the energy to press forward. High elves were a slender, lightweight race, but the fact that this particular high elf was a dead weight did not help matters. He knew that if he ever dropped her he'd never be able to pick her up again.

He stumbled through the snow for several minutes, several times almost losing her, until at last he reached his destination -- one of many small caves etched into the icy tundra that he had passed earlier. It was just big enough for the two of them.

He pushed her limp body inside, and then followed himself. He was pleased to find the cave provided good shelter from the biting wind; they could wait out the blizzard here.

Bryony had settled into a deep slumber, and Aramoor, thoroughly exhausted by now, was tempted to join her. But hypothermia and possible frostbite had to be dealt with first.

His first priority was the ranger's extremities, as they were the most vulnerable to frostbite. He took off her doeskin boots, massaging her feet and toes, blowing hot air on them for good measure. Then he removed her gloves, working warmth into her slender hands -- the same hands which had aimed and shot countless arrows, ending the lives of so many servants of the Scourge. The only other major risk for frostbite was the elf's long ears. Tentatively, the human reached out to touch one; it felt soft and velvety. He massaged warmth into these too.

When it was done, Aramoor breathed a sigh of relief. She would live, and he would live too, for they could share each other's body heat and beat the relentless cold. And to think, they had both come so close, so very close to Death! Until they had found each other.

The realization that he was not all alone, that another living, breathing thing existed on Northrend was wonderfully uplifting. He drew her close, so close he could hear her heart beating, and basked in her body heat. Looking at her breath create a warm mist in the frigid air, he realized he was looking at Life itself.

Bryony was Life, Warmth, Hope, Perfection…the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; an angel made flesh.

On sudden impulse, he pressed his lips against hers; he stole a kiss from the sleeping angel; and as time lay still in the passionate embrace, he experienced the greatest feelings of euphoria, joy, and contentment that he had ever felt.

And suddenly his life had purpose again. The angel of Life didn't belong in this frozen land of Death. He swore to himself at that moment that would see her escape this godsforsaken continent alive, no matter the cost, even if it meant his own life. The hole in his heart was filled, the wound mended, and he would never, ever go back to being the fatalist he had been.

For he had hope now; he had a purpose. He had Bryony.


	2. Part 2

Part 4

**Heartwell, Part 2**

**Chapter 16**

Kirielle stood before an adamantine doorway, adorned with ice crystals and human skulls, awaiting an audience with her master Ner'zhul, the leader of the Undead Scourge.

It had been a year since the Lich King had killed her, and Undeath had not been kind to the high elf. She was still beautiful in a way -- not even Death could take that from her -- but it was a cold, impersonal beauty now. Her rich auburn hair had turned silver; her skin had become ashen gray; her eyes were now pools of inky darkness. Her clothes might have been mistaken for those of a living ranger of Quel'thalas, except for the color -- dull, death black. Deep in the heart of the forsaken continent of Northrend, the dark ranger languished in her damnation.

"The Great Lord will see you now," rasped a black-robed acolyte. The dead man muttered an arcane syllable and the massive doors of the throne room swung open of their own accord. Steeling her courage, Kirielle stepped inside.

Even now, she was terrified of the Lich King. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and as far as she was concerned, omniscient. She knew that he could read every thought that passed through the minds of his servants, and if he found those thoughts not to his liking…severe unpleasantness could result. Once she had been present when one of the acolytes had offended the Great Lord, and fervently did she never wish to see the like again…it had seemed as though the man's screams went on for days. She shuddered at the memory.

The dark ranger tried to guard her thoughts, to make her mind go blank, but it was useless. Ner'zhul had to know by now that she despised him as much as she feared him. That she was desperately trying to preserve the last vestiges of her humanity. That she did not revere him as a god like she was supposed to. He had to know; but apparently he didn't care. Perhaps he found her pitiful efforts at rebellion amusing.

She quickly approached the Frozen Throne, prostrating herself before it.

"Oh Great Ner'zhul, Exalted One! Redeemer! You are all! It is I, your humble servant Kirielle, Defender of Icecrown. I have returned from the task you set me to."

The dead elf's voice echoed through the vast confines of the cavern. Even here, ten full meters from the Throne, she could feel the power radiating from it. It never ceased to awe her, even though she must have been here at least a dozen times during the past year.

The undead lord looked down on his subject in cold silence. That might be a bad thing, or it might not. Kirielle could never tell what kind of mood her master was in. It was probably best to hurry, to be out of here before she fell victim to one of the Lich King's cruel whims.

"I have massacred the infidels that took refuge on your sacred glacier. The Alliance cowards are all dead, and even now the necromancers are preparing to give them new life in glorious service to you. My own army's losses were negligible. The Undead Scourge has won a great victory today!"

At last the Ner'zhul spoke in his deep, booming voice. "Ahh Kirielle, I am well-pleased with your success. And to think that just a year ago it seemed as though you lacked the conviction necessary to contribute to my grand cause. I'm _so_ glad you had a change of heart."

Was there a touch of mockery in his voice? There was! Inwardly, Kirielle trembled. He knew! He knew about her recalcitrance! And he chose to taunt her with it.

But it looked as though he would do more than just taunting. The Frozen Throne had started to glow, and that meant only one thing -- an imminent magical attack by the Lich King. She braced herself for the magical bolt that would come, the one that would bring intense agony or oblivion or worse--and yes, there it was!

A green surge of energy shot out from the Throne towards the dark ranger.

Kirielle screamed as it engulfed her.

Oddly, there was no pain. In fact, she felt pretty good. _Damn_ good!

What hideous fate did Ner'zhul have in store for her? Death by pleasure? She had to admit that he was pretty good at thinking up innovative ways to kill people. Last time the offender's flesh had literally melted off the bone.

The dark ranger dropped to the floor, writhing in ecstasy as the green haze flowed through her, overwhelmed her.

She realized now that this was negative energy -- the opposite of life energy. Some powerful practitioners of the Black Arts were able to harness it; to mold it into a spell known as "death coil," for it was harmful to the living and beneficial to the dead. But this was several hundred times more powerful than any mere death coil. She willingly, gladly surrendered to its unholy embrace, though surely what was left of her soul was being soiled irrevocably in the process.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the blissful union ended. The green haze dissipated, the Throne stopped glowing, and the elf found herself gazing up at her master in loving adoration.

"More," she panted.

"Kirielle, in reward for your victory today, and your undying devotion to me, I have granted you a boon. Just as the greatest rangers of Quel'thalas can learn to magically tame animals, so too can you now tame your prey. For I have given you the ability to strip the living of their will; to make believers out of infidels; to charm them with but your mere presence, so that you may better aid the Scourge. I look forward to seeing many new converts brought into the fold."

The dark ranger unsteadily got to her feet and bowed. "I thank my lord."

"You have an important mission coming up, so you must prepare your army to leave Northrend. I suggest you try out your charm spell before you leave, perhaps on the two Alliance soldiers that you…_allowed_ to escape off the glacier today."

Kirielle's insides turn to jelly. The Frozen Throne had started to glow again.

"No! Please mas--"

A blast of red energy arced from the Throne and _slammed_ into the elf. Pain, pain, _PAIN_! She went into convulsions. Her vision blacked out. She screamed. She cried. She whimpered. At last, mercifully, it ended.

"This is how easy it is for me to kill you. Remember this. Remember who holds your soul. Remember where your loyalty _must_ lie…"

Another blast of magic slammed into the ranger, literally propelling her out of the throne room and into the far wall of the antechamber beyond. She collapsed in a heap. The massive doors to Ner'zhul's inner sanctum swung shut behind her with a loud bang. She had been dismissed.

**Chapter 17**

For a while Kirielle lay where she had fallen, curled into a pitiful ball, pondering what had just happened. It had been close. Too damn close.

Oh Gods how she wanted to break down and cry! To let it all out; the stress, the fear; the despair…to wallow in self-pity, to weep for the loss of what had been.

But she couldn't. Not here. As her vision came back into focus, as she became aware of her surroundings, she realized the antechamber was _not_ empty.

In fact it was crowded with lesser servants of the Lich King awaiting an audience with their master. Some of these dark servants glared at her scornfully, but most simply avoided her gaze. If she was in trouble with the Great Lord they didn't want to get involved.

She couldn't be seen like this…so pitiful and weak and vulnerable. Still trembling a bit, she managed to get to her feet, arrange her disheveled clothing into some semblance of neatness, and walk away as though nothing had happened -- as though she hadn't just come within a hair's breadth of being obliterated by one of the most powerful necromancers the world had ever seen.

Still a bit disoriented, the dark ranger stumbled through the maze of icy caverns that ran beneath Icecrown, trying to avoid those she encountered, snarling at the few who dared approach her. She had to be tough, had to be mean. Anything less would be seen as a sign of weakness, and weaklings didn't last long in the Undead Scourge.

This was especially true for one in her position. She held the post of Defender of Icecrown -- quite a high rank, putting her on the same level as the crypt lords and lesser liches. But the higher one went within the Lich King's hierarchy, the more intense the scrutiny and peer judgement became.

She was disgusted by the constant backstabbing and political double-dealing that went on behind the scenes between Ner'zhul's lieutenants -- it seemed they all hated each other, and fought amongst themselves for the Lich King's favor like little children all trying to get the same toy. She was even more disgusted by the fact she had been caught up in this political intrigue -- that she was forced to participate in it, really. For she knew that if she ever showed the slightest sign of frailty; of incompetence, her rivals would pounce on her in an instant. Of course, outright conflict was forbidden within the ranks of the Scourge, but… accidents…had been known to happen, especially to those who let down their guard.

The web of personal vendettas, alliances, and petty feuds was impossible to keep track of, but she tried nonetheless. She had to see the threats before they materialized or she would certainly be killed.

How odd it was that she feared assassination now, when after she had first been Turned she had longed for true Death to find her. But her instinct of self-preservation had survived the transition to Undeath; in fact it seemed even stronger than before. She wasn't sure if it was the Lich King's doing or a "natural" aspect of Unlife or both, but she was certain that she didn't want to die again -- once had been enough.

She was entering a temple of the damned now, where the necromancers studied and practiced the Black Arts. Through the dim light she could make out piles of corpses littering the floor next to bloodstained altars. Many of the dead bodies were recent additions, the spoils of victory from her recent battle with the Alliance on the Icecrown glacier. Here and there groups of black hooded men whispered amongst themselves or pored over ancient tomes.

"Heh, hello Kirielle! It's not often we're graced with your presence down here."

The dark ranger sighed as a thin robed man with a vaguely serpentlike face detached himself from the shadows and approached her.

"Hello, Anchises."

Anchises was the one person in Icecrown she trusted. Or rather, the one person she distrusted least. He was an ugly man of disgusting tastes who fancied himself a brilliant womanizer. Rumor had it that he had once been a minor hedge wizard in some backwater hamlet of Lordaeron, but after futilely pursing the women in his village for years, he had taken up the Black Arts. With his newfound dark magics he killed all those who had spurned his advances, raising them as undead. Apparently he didn't care whether his girlfriends were among the living or not, and Kirielle had made certain to exploit that weakness to its fullest.

Once Anchises had been one of her many rivals/competitors, but now she counted him among her closest of allies. A boyfriend really. Or at least as close to a boyfriend as one could get within a violent soulless culture of death and distrust.

It had been almost too easy for Kirielle to win him over, to seduce him. The fool apparently didn't understand that Undeath had stolen her capacity to appreciate the kind of sensual pleasures he had in mind for her. A part of her loathed to play the charade, but the truth was that she had lost her modesty when she had lost her life.

Recently the necromancer had found out the dark ranger liked poetry, and now whenever their paths crossed he was certain to have some horribly composed bit of verse for her to suffer through. And sure enough, Anchises drew out a bloodstained scrap of parchment from the folds of his black robe.

_"A tender caress_

_A whispered promise of love._

_Your eyes dance with delight_

_Reflected off the fire of our passion._

_Longing to embrace one another_

_So very little time._

_A sigh of sweet surrender_

_As emotion fuels the fire._

_Nothing needs to be said_

_No goodbyes need to be given._

_No matter the distance between us_

_You know we will always be together."_

Kirielle was impressed. That was much better than the trash he usually read to her. It sounded like something Berian would have written.

Berian…now there was a name she hadn't thought about in a long time. Idly the elf wondered about her old boyfriend in Quel'thalas. Did he miss her? Had he found someone to replace her? Did he know she was dead?

"So, what did you think, Kirielle?"

"Did you write that all by yourself, Anchises?"

"Nah, I found it on that sorceress over there," the mage said, jerking his thumb at a nearby pile of corpses. On the top of the pile a dead high elf sorceress stared sightlessly at the ceiling, her fine robes smeared with blood. She was a brunette, and might have been pretty once, but a skeleton's attack had torn a hideous gash across the woman's neck.

"Heh, apparently her lover wrote it for her as a goodbye present before she left on the expedition to Northrend."

Kirielle had to wonder. Was a high elf like Berian waiting in Quel'thalas, waiting in vain for his lover, his sorceress to return to his arms?

Suddenly Kirielle had the urge to draw her bow and send an arrow straight through Anchises's black, worm-ridden heart. She smiled at the mental image of the necromancer being impaled on one of her barbed arrows; a look of shock on his face as he collapsed dead onto the pile of bodies he had so recently looted.

Mistaking Kirielle's smile for approval, the black mage smiled back. "Glad you liked it, heh. You wouldn't believe all the interesting stuff we're finding on these stiffs from the Alliance. An hour ago I found an accordion on one of the humans! A bloody accordion! Why the hell would someone take an accordion to Northrend?"

"My guess would be to play it, Anchises."

"Heh, well, whatever." His tone turned businesslike. "I guess you're here about the bodies right?"

"You guess right," replied Kirielle, now equally businesslike.

"We got about a thousand each of humans and dwarves, heh. And a couple dozen high elves for good measure. They're still bringing some of them down off the glacier, but they'll all be here pretty soon. I can get you five hundred of the dwarf corpses -- they're the best material. Good bone density means stronger ghouls or abominations, heh."

"Only five hundred?" the ranger pouted. "How am I supposed to keep my army's numbers up? I must've lost five hundred alone today."

"Aw, well, when you look at me with those sad little eyes…All right! Six hundred! But anything more is against my principles."

"Well technically, all those former Alliance soldiers should belong to me, since it was my army that killed them," Kirielle spat, her tone now dangerous.

"Look, don't blame me--"

"Hello Kirielle," a deep voice boomed from the shadows. In an instant the dark ranger had an arrow nocked and ready to fire, but she just as quickly lowered her bow when a massive dreadlord stepped out of the darkness.

"He-hello Zenedar," she stammered, placing her hands at her side to show she had no hostile intentions. "You startled me."

She feared dreadlords nearly as much as she feared the Lich King. Like Ner'zhul, the dreadlords were psychic. Mind readers. She shivered involuntarily.

"I heard about your impressive victory over the Alliance today, and I just wanted to offer my congratulations," the dreadlord smiled, thrusting out a huge claw for her to shake.

Tentatively the ranger grasped the demon's claw and shook it. It was an awkward moment, to say the least.

"Well, I'm glad that I was able to avenge Mal'Ganis," Kirielle offered weakly.

"Yes, what a pity he had to die," the dreadlord sighed.

"Mal'Ganis owed me some…things. Now that he's dead, I'll never get them. In any case, it's good to see the Scourge performing so well; Tichondrius is pleased. Two major victories in one day!"

Kirielle arched an eyebrow at the demon. "Two?"

"Yes, haven't you heard? Arthas killed his own father, and now the plague is spreading unchecked through central Lordaeron! I expect we'll all be going there soon. That's where the front lines are now."

Anchises nodded. "That's why I can't give you as many corpses as usual, Kirielle. Most of them have been earmarked for Arthas's invasion force."

"_Arthas_?" Kirielle was incensed. "That ignorant twat is getting _my_ cadavers?!"

"Sorry, but it's the Lich King's orders. Heh, I've heard that Arthas has gained quite a bit a favor with the Great Lord during his short stay with the Scourge."

Kirielle shook her head in disgust. In her opinion, Arthas was a sub-par commander with no mind for tactics. That the stupid human was getting preferential treatment over her was an insult! She refused to deal with this any more today.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but …I have things to do, people to kill, that sort of thing... _Anchises_!"

The necromancer jumped. "Heh?"

"Just get me whatever corpses you can, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," he nodded.

She angrily stalked out of the dark temple, nearly running into an acolyte at the exit. The two members of the Scourge stared at each other in momentary surprise before the robed servitor withered under the dark ranger's murderous gaze and fled back the way he had come. She often had that effect on people these days.

**Chapter 18**

Kirielle easily navigated the labyrinth of passageways that honeycombed the Icecrown glacier -- her skills as a tracker were unparalleled and had served her well in Undeath. She was perhaps the only one besides the Lich King himself who knew the location of every nook and cranny in the massive underground fortress. The twisting maze of ice tunnels was supposed to be a defensive measure, a means of confusing an invading force, but in Kirielle's mind it served another purpose as well.

Boundaries.

By walling off certain tunnels, by restricting access to parts of the labyrinth, she had been able to establish a "territory" of sorts. A place where only her servants were welcome, and where she herself could make plans and relax among her bodyguards without fear of assassination. Although the few higher ranking members of the Scourge could technically demand entrance to her "territory", none so far had had the audacity to try. They, too, feared assassination.

As Kirielle reached the guard checkpoint that led into her little part of Icecrown, the skeletons on duty knelt before her, their heads bowed. She passed by them without a second glance, and entered the main cavern of her sanctuary. It was huge, several kilometers across, serving as both a staging area and a storage area for undead troops -- the Scourge had little use for living quarters in the conventional sense.

Her army was assembled here, in all its unholy glory. The lesser undead were divided into ragged bands, for Kirielle found that tight, pretty formations were more suited to Alliance military parades than to the real world.

There were no officers in sight. Unlike the Alliance, the Scourge was not exactly top-heavy when it came to leadership. There were a handful of powerful generals, such as Kirielle, and then their countless multitudes of minions. No mid or lower level officers, because they simply weren't needed. Kirielle was linked to her troops in much the same way that she was linked to the Lich King. Ner'zhul gave the commands and she was compelled to obey. She gave the commands and her troops were compelled to obey.

Battle standards were displayed prominently from the ranks of the dark ranger's troops. They were of varying shapes and sizes, for they had all been captured during Kirielle's campaigns. Some belonged to the Alliance; others were crude cloth flags that had belonged to savage troll or gnoll tribes. But painted over all of them in blood was the symbol of House Lenaire of Quel'thalas. A small reminder that once there had been a high elf named Kirielle Lenaire.

It was ironic that as a girl she had dreamt of becoming a great general and leading a mighty army. Yet, somehow, she had never imagined it being quite like this.

As she entered the cavern, her minions bowed in homage to her. This was not due to a command on her part, but genuine respect. She was perhaps the most popular general among her troops within the entire Undead Scourge, and that wasn't just because she won all her battles either. Harsh but fair; that was her reputation.

The other generals of the Scourge were sadists, cruel, and often mentally unstable. A few were homicidal lunatics. Most considered a good order to be along the lines of, "Go kill the enemy or I'll kill you." Compared to such leaders, the dark ranger could not help but stand out.

"Kirielle!!"

Her soldiers, those who could speak, were giving voice to their adoration for their beloved commander. They had won many victories under her, but today had been their greatest yet. The noise was deafening. All of Icecrown shook with the sound of it.

"_Kirielle_!!"

Ghouls howled their unearthly screams, skeletons beat their swords on their shields, abominations strained their dead vocal chords to shout their unintelligible cries -- such was their devotion to the Defender of Icecrown.

Something in the back of Kirielle's mind told her that this was not right. A feeling of gradual uneasiness rose within the elf, and she tried to place its origin.

"KIRIELLE!!"

Then she had it. She saw the faces of all her countless victims, saw them pointing at her, accusing her. Her troops were shouting to the whole _world_ her crimes!

"No! _No_! Be quiet!"

Her lone voice was drowned out by the nightmarish, unholy cacophony that filled the cavern.

Monster. Murderer. Butcher. Kirielle.

"_KIRIELLE_!!"

The weight of the cavern was collapsing on her, the world was closing in on her, she had to get away! To get away from the accusation! The universal condemnation!

Desperately, she pushed through the crowd, the throng of undead. They parted before her like chaff before a hurricane, but the noise wouldn't stop. It just wouldn't stop!

She escaped into a side passage, running as though pursued by…as though pursued by Kirielle herself. Death itself.

Horrified, terrified, she fled downward, into the dark bowels of Icecrown. Still, she could hear a faint echo, the sound of her accursed name. They were still shouting in the cavern! They wouldn't dare follow her without permission, but…still, she had to go deeper.

She was in an uninhabited part of the glacier labyrinth now. Not even her servants were allowed down here. It was her place alone. The shouting had faded away to nothingness, and now the only sound was of her boots crunching through the soft layer of snow that padded the icy floor. She wouldn't stop running though; the terror was still there.

When she had first been Turned to Unlife, Kirielle had feared the Lich King more than she had ever feared anything in her two hundred and thirty years of existence. But lately, sometimes, she feared herself even more.

The first few weeks of Undeath had been an intensely miserable experience. The cold was unending, and she had lost the link to her beloved Sunwell, the source of warmth in her soul. The idealist in her had immediately resolved to escape from the Lich King's enslavement.

But as the days of her Unlife passed into weeks and the weeks into months a ruthless, calculating part of her personality she didn't know existed had emerged. She found herself _liking_ her lot in life, _relishing_ in the deathcries of the living, gazing in _admiration_ upon her murderer and enslaver, Ner'zhul. For a time the two personas fought amongst each other, but gradually the new ruthless Kirielle had won out. She seldom thought about home now; happy memories were anathema to her. It was just too painful. Her present, her future were Undeath --there was no going back, so why live in the past? Why mourn what could not be undone?

Just when the new ruthless Kirielle had had been poised to win out, to declare victory over the battered and disheartened old Kirielle, she had seen Bryony. And the memories had all come flooding back to her.

**Chapter 19**

Old, humanity-blessed Kirielle had come back with a vengeance earlier today, but now, already, she found herself retreating. More than anything, she was confused. At times like this there was a place she would go, to try and find reason, balance. Once, Nature had provided her with those things, but her ability to commune with the wilds had been lost forever. Where she went now would only provide a crude, temporary substitute, but it was better than nothing.

The passageway she traveled through sloped ever downward, going far deeper than the Icecrown labyrinth, until finally it opened out into an immense natural grotto. Here, deep in the bosom of the earth, was heat. The only place on Northrend where it could be found in abundance. It was no accident that her "territory" included a cavern of natural hot springs. She breathed a sigh of relief and stopped running. Here she would be safe from the maddening cries of the damned.

Steam rose from many placid pools of water in the cave. Some of the pools held scalding hot water, but these were not for her. Undeath had granted the dark ranger many immunities, but resistance to extreme heat was not one of them.

She set aside her longbow and unclasped her midnight-hued cloak. Stripping out of her black clothes, she chose a pool of warm water and waded in. She sighed with contentment as the heated liquid closed around her. This provided the illusion of life, made it feel as though warm blood flowed through her veins again. This was freedom. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the pool.

Her thoughts wandered, but always they came back to Bryony. Her best friend.

She had been shocked, _shocked_ to see Bryony at the base of the glacier earlier in the day. When arrows had started dropping her necromancers with alarming accuracy, the dark ranger had gone to see what group of reinforcements the Alliance had been able to bring over without her knowledge, destroying her carefully laid battle plans.

She had expected an army, or at least an elite strike force due to the fearsome damage that was being dealt. What she had found was a single ranger. Bryony.

Her friend was just as she remembered her, just as she left her in Quel'thalas a year ago. But now Bryony was here, on Northrend. It seemed inconceivable, but the living ranger must have followed her here. Perhaps to find her, rescue her? That had to be it.

The two rangers had stared at each other, neither saying a word. Bryony did not attack Kirielle, Kirielle did not attack Bryony. They looked into each others' eyes, searching, staring. Abruptly Bryony, with a strangled cry, had run away.

Kirielle could have stopped her, could have brought the weight of her massive army of two thousand necromancers to bear on the lone ranger, could certainly have killed her, but she didn't. Bryony was her friend.

And that was the problem. The Lich King had ordered the dark ranger to slay the two Alliance soldiers that had escaped off the glacier, and a command from the Great Lord could not be ignored.

Bryony, of course, was one of the two escapees. Kirielle wasn't certain about the other escapee. During the course of the battle a lone steam tank had managed a spectacular escape to freedom from the glacier summit. She figured that had to be escapee number two.

The dead elf pondered the question…Kill Bryony, or spare her? She couldn't decide. Letting Bryony live would be risking the Lich King's considerable wrath. Killing Bryony meant killing a friend. Her best friend. Either way, the Great Lord would know what she had done, and why.

But whatever happened, the second escapee was definitely going to die, if only to appease Ner'zhul.

Kirielle sighed. She didn't need to make a decision right away. She had a pretty good idea of her friend's whereabouts, and what the living ranger's only possible action could be. This could be dealt with another day.

Right now…Kirielle just wanted to go to sleep, for she was very, very tired. So tired. But it wasn't a weariness of the body -- she was beyond that now -- but of the spirit. She didn't know how much longer she could keep fighting, trying to preserve her humanity. The warm water helped, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Her reflection in the water showed an ashen, dead gray face. Her face. She angrily splashed the image away, but it came back within a few seconds.

It all made Kirielle angry, the whole situation. She had trained for decades to master the longbow, spent weeks alone in the wild learning survival skills, her vigorous lifestyle had given her a strong, athletic form. She had sacrificed so much (two _centuries_ of hard work), labored so hard to learn the ways of the rangers, to benefit herself and her people. And with one swift thrust of a runeblade, the Lich King had stolen it all in a matter of seconds.

He was a dagger, poised to strike in the path of progress, of improvement. That basic instinct of humanity, that built in ideology of self-betterment, the drive to reach for the stars, the motivation to work hard for a better life…the Lich King struck at all these things. He struck at Hope itself.

It wasn't fair! Kirielle had tried so _hard_ to be a good ranger; but her determination, her strong motivation had been her undoing. She should never have gone to Northrend. But she had, and now her ranger skills aided Ner'zhul. Not her. Not her people.

Thief. Stealer of souls. Stealer of hope. By all the Gods she hated the Great Lord!

If there was salvation, if there was hope, it had to be in the memories of the past, for her present and future belonged only to Ner'zhul.

"I am Kirielle!" she cried desperately, her voice echoing through the grotto. The Kirielle that innocently played in the majestic forests of Quel'thalas as a girl. The Kirielle that wrote beautiful poetry professing her love for Berian, her elven boyfriend. The Kirielle that respected the sanctity of life and Nature.

Not the Kirielle that butchered legions of Alliance soldiers. Not the Kirielle that relished in negative energy's taint of her soul. Not the Kirielle that had found a fallen bird's nest in the Northrend wilderness, and had calmly snapped the neck of each and every chirping fledgling. Not that Kirielle.

"I am me! I am Kirielle. _Kirielle_!!"

But looking at her reflection in the water, she wasn't at all sure it was true anymore.

**Chapter 20**

Aramoor was dreaming. He was at a party by honor, for his honor. It was a picnic at his family's farm, and everyone in his life was there -- all his friends from Hearthglen. His father. His sister.

His neighbor Del Connaway was making jokes with Fernum the local cooper. His father was telling the story of the time he caught the twenty pound bass at Tarren Lake to the Jensen brothers. Christina, sweet Christina, his sister, sat contently in the grass with a picnic basket by her side, munching on a strawberry pie.

Everywhere there was laughter and happiness, good food and camaraderie.

A large crowd had gathered at the center of the festivities, and Aramoor found himself wandering over to see what was going on.

"A toast," Mayor Brooks was proposing. "To Aramoor! We wish him luck as he travels to the world outside our humble town. All our hopes and best wishes go with him."

Aramoor blinked in surprise. This was a going away party? A goodbye party?

Everyone had turned towards him, expectantly, smiling.

"Time to be on your way, Aramoor," his father said softly, at his side.

"Where am I going? I don't want to leave!"

His sister came up to him, her dress stained with strawberries. She hugged him tightly.

"Oh Aramoor! We'll miss you, and we know you'll miss us. But there's a whole world out there for you to explore, to live in. We know you'll make us proud."

His family's farm suddenly disappeared, along with the party and all of the revelers except Christina. He found himself in a long dark tunnel. At the far end of it was a bright light.

His sister spoke. "Your path lies outside of Hearthglen. Your goal should be the light."

Aramoor found himself walking towards the brightness. Somehow he knew that he could never go back, that every step he took brought him farther away from Hearthglen and the people there forever. He knew he would never see Christina again, see any of them again, after this.

It was sad, but yet he also felt a sense of closure. Of letting go of the past. He felt all his friends and family pushing him forward, on the path, towards the light.

It was closer now, blindingly bright, emanating pleasant warmth. At last he reached it, was in front of it, and he could see its source. It was an angel, her beauty so stunning to behold that his eyes hurt to look upon it. Bryony.

She smiled and beckoned him closer.

He approached, trembling. Her fair face filled his vision; her sparkling blue eyes pierced his soul. This was his destiny, he was certain.

He reached his left hand up and tangled it in her lush silky hair, bringing her face towards his for the kiss…

**Chapter 21**

When Aramoor awoke from his idyllic dream, he found that some of it was true.

Bryony's face _was_ pressed against his. His left hand _was_ tangled in her golden mane of hair. He _was_ warm all over; for during the night the temperature of the small cave they were in had become quite cozy due to their body heat.

Outside of the cave the fierce blizzard of the night had spent itself out. The first rays of dawn were beginning to peek over the horizon, illuminating a clear blue sky. Aramoor's soul was a clear sky too; the stormy clouds that had plagued him had gone with the blizzard, and his sunshine, Bryony, illuminated his day now, though she didn't realize it. The footprints of his past had been washed away by the blizzard too; he had a clean slate now, a new life, a clear conscience. He felt reborn.

The Pathfinder still slept, no doubt exhausted from her recent brush with death, but Aramoor needed her awake. They needed to move. Northrend still belonged to the Undead Scourge, and every second spent idle was a second that wasn't devoted to escaping off the continent.

He reached to shake the ranger awake, though he was loath to disturb her peaceful slumber. Then he noticed that her slumber wasn't so peaceful.

Her breathing was rapid, and she twitched fitfully. She talked to herself, whimpering sometimes, but the words were in Elvish and Aramoor couldn't understand them. The Pathfinder was having a nightmare --a pretty bad one by the looks of it.

He shook her. "Bryony! Wake up!"

Her blue eyes shot open, still filled with fear from the bad dream. Then the fear was replaced by confusion as the nightmare made way for the reality of the waking world and the elf took stock of her surroundings.

"Ar - Aramoor?" she asked groggily.

"It's all right," he cooed softly. "Y ou were having a bad dream."

Still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Bryony tried to sit up, but hit her head on the low cave ceiling.

"Ow!" she cried, dropping back down to the hard floor, wide awake now. "Where…where are we? What's going on?"

"I found you in the blizzard last night. You had hypothermia, and I brought you here so we could wait out the snowstorm."

"You…you saved my life?"

"Well, I couldn't let my favorite high elf die," he smiled.

"_Serri Kayala_! Then I'm in your debt."

She pushed past him and got out of the cramped confines of the cave. He followed. Featureless snowy plain surrounded them for as far as the eye could see. She stretched and Aramoor did the same; their muscles needed it after being stuck in the cramped cave for so long.

"Where are we exactly? Close to the glacier? Did I buy enough time for Cernick to save the expedition?"

He told her about the battle on the glacier, the decimation of the expedition, and his own lucky escape from certain death. By the time he was done, there were tears in the ranger's eyes.

"Only two of us left now, out of five thousand! We came here with five thousand!"

She was sobbing into her green cloak, using it as a makeshift handkerchief, and Aramoor too was choking back tears. There was something contagious about the elf's emotions.

"Why Aramoor? _Why_? Why do people have to fight and kill? Why are we so violent? Those five thousand will never laugh again, smile again, see another sunrise. They had friends and family, dreams and hopes. The Elders of Quel'thalas taught me that when you kill a person, you not only kill that person, but you kill all the children that person might have had, and all the children of those children. How can the Scourge be so cold-hearted? How can they show such disrespect for the sanctity of life? How can such evil _exist_ in the world?"

The footman shook his head. "I don't know, Bryony."

"The undead will not even give those people their eternal rest! They will defile their corpses, pollute their souls! I've heard that high elves raised as undead permanently lose their link to the Sunwell."

She shuddered. "That's not a fate I'd wish on anybody."

The sun was climbing overhead, providing some slight degree of warmth. But the days in Northrend were short and Aramoor knew they needed to be on their way.

"How are you feeling Bryony? Well enough to travel?"

"I guess. I'm still kinda weak. Pretty hungry too."

She wiped away her tears and looked at him oddly. "Where's your sword?"

"Lost it."

She handed him her belt knife. He pocketed it.

"Where's your armor?"

"Had to get rid of it."

The ranger unclasped her green cloak with black flecks on it and handed it to him. "Take this then, it'll keep you warm."

He pushed it away, "Keep it. You need to be warm too."

"Well, at least I still have my full set of clothes! That woolen stuff you footmen wear under your armor doesn't look all that comfy. Besides, you saved my life. I owe you a debt I can never repay, but at least…at least this is something I can do for you."

The elf pressed the cloak in to his hands, and this time he kept it.

"Bryony?"

"Yes?"

"Promise me you'll never pull a suicidal stunt like you did yesterday at the base of the glacier."

"I had to. It was the only way to save the expedition. If only that idiot Cernick had done the smart thing and run away while he had the chance. I hit the necromancers pretty hard before I got away."

"How _did_ you escape, anyway? There must've been two thousand black mages in that army."

The ranger's features became sorrowful. "Kirielle let me get away. I think she did at least."

"Kirielle?"

"My…my friend. The friend I came to Northrend to save." She was crying again.

"She was one of them, Aramoor! One of the undead! She was their bloody _leader_! I looked into her dead eyes, saw such hopelessness, such total, utter despair! I can't imagine what it must be like for her, with no Sunwell, no eternal rest… Poor Kirielle! Poor, poor Kirielle…" her voice trailed off.

The elf stared off into the distance, sniffling, her face flushed from weeping. A minute passed.

Aramoor was about to break the silence, to suggest they start moving, when Bryony suddenly spoke.

"I dreamt about her, you know. About Kirielle. In the dream I didn't make it off the glacier. Kirielle shot me through the heart. She killed me…and everything went black. Then I could see again, but I wasn't…I wasn't me. I was like Kirielle, ashen and gray and…"

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Well, you're not going to die, not if I can help it."

"It's just the two of us against the entire Undead Scourge, Aramoor. How are we gonna live?"

"We're getting off Northrend, that's how."

He told her his plan. She admitted it might work.

**Chapter 22**

Rolan was dead -- but yet the skeleton wouldn't stop attacking him. Methodically, mechanically, the fleshless undead creature hacked at the deceased paladin with its bony claw, now painted a grisly red.

"Stop that!" growled a black-robed necromancer.

The skeleton obeyed. The black robe went back down the glacier slope to confer with some of his brethren, and his skeletal servant followed dutifully, deferentially behind.

Icecrown was a scene of total carnage. Although meat wagons had already taken away most of the corpses, spiriting them into the giant necropolis under the glacier, the telltale signs of a battlefield were everywhere.

Broken swords, shattered bones, bloodstained cloth and other debris decorated the glacier slope. Necromancers swarmed over the scene, like ants attracted to carrion, while their skeletal lackeys looked on or occasionally assisted with simple tasks.

Concealed behind a large snowdrift, Aramoor watched it all in grim silence. It wasn't going to be easy to get up to the Alliance settlement at the summit. No way to bypass all the Scourge soldiers without being seen.

He'd come up with a plan though, and sent Bryony out ten minutes ago to make it happen. The ranger had melted into the snowy terrain and he hadn't seen her since. Where the hell was she? She should be back by now…

He heard a sound behind him. Someone was creeping up on him.

He instinctively reached for his sword, realized he didn't have it, then reached for Bryony's belt knife instead. The footman whirled around, putting himself in a defensive crouch at the same time, prepared to face whatever--

A black mass of…_something_ was hurtling towards him!

He had seconds, _seconds_ before it hit! He slashed at it desperately with his knife before it engulfed him, blocking out his vision, stifling his breath. He fell backward into the snow, struggling with the cloth-like monster's embrace.

Musical laughter sounded close by.

He tore the monster off him, his chest heaving, his knife raised to finish it off, when he saw Bryony standing before him.

She held a black necromancer's robe in her hands, along with two wooden staves.

The "monster" that had attacked him was another dark wizard's robe. Bryony had thrown it at him, he realized.

The ranger's eyes twinkled with amusement, and she was obviously holding back more laughter with great effort. For some reason she reminded him very much of a little child.

"Surprise! I can see you like your new robe!"

For a while, all Aramoor could do was stare at her in amazement. Here they were, stranded on Northrend, in one of the most precarious situations imaginable, and Bryony wanted to play games!

She _was_ a child!

"You and your ranger stealth skills…" he muttered. It seemed odd that she had been weeping despondently only an hour ago. It was said that high elves had naturally upbeat personalities, and looking at Bryony now, Aramoor could well believe it.

He wanted to admonish her, to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation, but looking at her smiling face the words died on his lips. He couldn't bring himself to take away her smile. For the longest time he had forgotten how to smile; he didn't want to make her forget; that would be a crime, a betrayal of hope, and a betrayal of what he was fighting for.

"Very funny," he managed. "I didn't know you were such a prankster."

"_Neasi Lional_! There are a lot of things you don't know about me, human."

At last she became businesslike.

"The Scourge idiots never saw me," the ranger said, tossing one of the wooden staves to the footman. "I got to the battlefield, found two dead necromancers, looted them, and was out before they ever suspected a thing."

"You hid the bodies, right?"

The Scourge soldiers on the slope might get suspicious if two dead undressed necromancers were found.

"Of course I hid them," replied the Pathfinder. "Buried them in the snow. Saved them from a nasty Unlife, though the Light knows the two curs didn't deserve it."

Aramoor put on his black necromancer's robe and lectured the high elf. "Remember, our disguises aren't perfect; we won't look exactly like Scourge wizards, so keep your hood on at all times. Don't look any of the necromancers in the face. Don't go near any of them if you can help it. Walk slowly and deliberately like they do. Lean on your stave. If we're going to make it up to the glacier summit--"

"Uh oh."

"What?"

"My robe won't fit," moaned the ranger. When Aramoor looked, he saw that the robe actually _did_ fit. But the hood didn't.

Bryony's long elven ears made it impossible for her to adjust the cowl over her head; it kept slipping off. Unfortunately, elven necromancers were unheard of, and without a cowl covering her heritage, Bryony would stick out like a sore thumb.

"These lousy robes are made for humans! In Quel'thalas we just cut holes in our hoods so our ears have room."

"Can't you just…bend your ears so they fit in the cowl?"

The ranger looked scandalized. "_Jeris naya_! My ears do not _bend_, human."

"All right, all right!" Aramoor said, putting up his hands defensively. He hadn't expected this.

"Uh, I don't suppose you could use your stealth skills to get up to the summit?"

"Getting to the base of the glacier is one thing, but getting all the way to the summit…I don't think Sylvanas herself could do that. Too many undead. Maybe we should just wait until they leave…"

"No! They'll find us, Bryony; it's like they can sniff out the living if given enough time. We can't afford to wait. Besides, we both haven't had anything to eat since yesterday. We _need_ the supplies at the settlement."

Aramoor sighed. "Well, I guess I'll go alone then. Wait here, and I'll be back… within an hour. If I'm not back by then… "

"Please be careful Aramoor…" the ranger said softly.

"I'll be back, I promise," he said, hugging her tightly.

He checked his disguise one last time, and set off for the glacier.

**Chapter 23**

Aramoor didn't like the look of the two necromancers. He'd obviously done something to pique their interest, because the two mages were on an intercept course with him as he ascended the glacier slope. The presence of thirty skeletal bodyguards with the pair led him to believe they were not coming for a social call.

The footman considered running, but discarded the idea. There were at least a hundred Scourge soldiers between him and safety on the snowy plain. Smooth talking was his only hope. It was time to play the bluffing game.

"Hey you! Hold it right there!" shouted the lead necromancer, a short man with an unseemly wart on his face.

Aramoor stopped, turned deliberately to face the man, waiting for the ugly inevitable.

"What are you doing going up the glacier?" boomed wart-face's companion in a deep bass voice.

Aramoor decided to play it tough. He didn't know much about the Scourge, but he did know they respected strength, and used fear to keep subordinates in line. He turned to face the two mages, pushed back his cowl, and fixed them with an icy glare. Then, with as much belligerence as he could muster, he growled, "Back off! I got orders to go up to the Alliance settlement. You got a problem with it, you can take it up with my commander."

The pair of mages seemed somewhat taken aback by his attitude; they recoiled like venomous snakes, but with only a moment's hesitation they resumed their verbal offensive, gliding towards him in a serpentine manner.

"Just who is your commander anyway?" asked wart-face, his eyes glinting darkly.

Aramoor only knew the names of two Scourge commanders. One of them was Mal'Ganis, the dreadlord killed by Arthas. The other was…

"Kirielle."

Both the mages smiled wickedly. Uh oh.

"Is that so? We work for Kirielle too, and we ain't never seen you before."

"I used to work for Mal'Ganis," Aramoor said smoothly. "I just got transferred to Kirielle's army, so that's probably why we haven't met."

Wart-face was unfazed however. "Bah! Everyone knows that Mal'Ganis's surviving troops were given to Kirielle. Incidentally, I used to work for Mal'Ganis too! And yep, I still can't remember ever seeing you before."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Aramoor's bravado was starting to wear thin. The skeletons surged around him expectantly, awaiting the order from their masters to attack. With only a belt knife and a wooden stave as weapons, Aramoor knew it would be a very one-sided fight.

"I'm callin' you a spy. Maybe you work for Zenedar? Or one of the liches? Kirielle pays us bounties of one hundred gold for killing spying scum like you, so you just listen here--"

This was not going well. Aramoor decided to take a desperate chance.

"I'm telling the truth. Ask me anything. Something only one of Mal'Ganis's troops would know."

Wart-face paused a moment, suddenly uncertain, his wicked smile wavering.

"All right. When we invaded Lordaeron under Mal'Ganis, we fought a big battle with Arthas's army at a small village on the outskirts of Stratholme. What was the name of that village?"

"Hearthglen," Aramoor said grimly, bitterly.

Wart-face asked several more in-depth questions about the Battle of Hearthglen. Aramoor knew all the right answers.

The two mages looked crestfallen. "So you might be for-real. But what does Kirielle want with the settlement? We've already been up there and looted all the valuable stuff."

Aramoor fervently hoped that what the Scourge considered valuable did not include the supplies he was going to get.

"Listen, if Kirielle wanted you to know that, she'd have told you. Now are you going to let me go, or am I going to have to tell Kirielle why two of her mages--"

"All right, all right! The settlement's all yours mister."

The confrontation was over. The mages and their escort turned to go, and Aramoor started to continue his ascent up the glacier when he stopped.

A meat wagon was trundling past, packed with corpses. The footman recognized Rolan the paladin among them. A feeling of sickening disgust welled up inside him. On the instant, he resolved that the Scourge would not take his paladin comrade.

"Hey!"

The two necromancers stopped, turned around to look at him.

"I need to commandeer this meat wagon. I need to take it up to the summit."

"Fine. Just be sure to bring it back."

**Chapter 24**

Aramoor was relieved to find the settlement deserted and mostly intact. His worst fear was that the Scourge would have leveled everything, but it seemed they weren't going to go to the trouble, with the Alliance expedition being decimated.

It was eerie, walking through the quiet empty streets which just a day ago had been bustling with activity and life.

The footman's first stop was the town hall. He found the food stores and loaded up several sacks of the choicest morsels he could find. He also made sure the food wasn't plagued.

His next stop was the Arcane Sanctum. Bryony had told him to look for green and blue potions, health and mana restoration respectively. He was lucky; under a loose floorboard he found ten green potions and two blue potions the Scourge had missed.

His last stop was a dwarven workshop. He gathered the tools and materials he would need, and then loaded all of his newly-acquired supplies into a steam tank.

His final act was to douse the meat wagon he had brought up the slope with lamp oil and set it on fire. Rolan and the others would be spared the pain of Unlife; it was the least he could do for his old comrade. But it also signaled to the Scourge troops down on the slope that something was amiss at the Alliance settlement. They would certainly come to investigate.

Aramoor remembered when the Alliance soldiers had set fire to their previous settlement, to deliver the message that a breakout was their only hope. He was committed to his own breakout now; once again, there was no turning back.

He steeled his courage, climbed into the steam tank, and for the second time in as many days, made a spectacular escape from the glacier summit.

At the base of the glacier he stopped to pick up his fire, his hope. Bryony. The two of them set off in the steam tank for the crashed goblin zeppelin Cernick had sent them to find, leaving the Scourge troops on the glacier far behind.

Hopefully, Aramoor would be able to repair the zeppelin, and they could escape off the forsaken continent to Lordaeron; to safety.

They needed to warn King Terenas of the fate of his son's expedition and of the very real danger the Scourge still posed. But far more important to Aramoor, he needed to make sure his angel Bryony was returned home safe.

**Chapter 25**

"How long will it take you to finish the repairs?"

"About thirty minutes, I think."

"I wish I could help…but I know nothing about _machines_," the high elf spat the word out distastefully. "They're unnatural."

"You can help. The Scourge troops from the glacier probably won't be able to reach us in time to stop us, but there may be other, nearer Scourge forces."

"I'll watch for them," the ranger said firmly, unslinging her long bow.

Aramoor started to work, using the materials he'd taken from the dwarven workshop. He'd never repaired a zeppelin before, but as an apprentice blacksmith in Hearthglen he had learned a bit about machines. He hoped it was enough to fix the airship.

Fifteen minutes later he heard the sound; the sound which he had hoped not to hear, yet somehow had known as inevitable.

The twang of a bow.

"They're here."

Not bothering to look up from his work, Aramoor asked, "What've we got?"

"Crypt fiends. Dozens of 'em."

"Can you handle it?"

"I think so."

Aramoor set back to work at a furious pace. Meanwhile, a battle raged around him. The Scourge kept bringing in reinforcements, more and more undead nerubians, and soon Bryony was very hard pressed to keep Aramoor alive.

The ground became littered with discarded, empty healing potions, as well as the corpses of countless crypt fiends.

Although Aramoor was focused on his repairs, the few glimpses he saw of the battle were memorable, to say the least. The Pathfinder was amazing.

The Scourge soldiers were being decimated by a hail of arrows that just wouldn't stop. The ranger never seemed to miss, and most of the crypt fiends never got close to her, let alone the zeppelin.

Golden hair streaming out behind her, her bow dealing death at every turn, Bryony looked the part of an invincible goddess; a goddess of war. She killed and killed and killed.

The snow became stained with the nerubians' dark green blood, and the air was filled with their harsh deathcries. Mounds of dead crypt fiends began to form.

Aramoor was almost done with the repairs now, and his spirits soared. They were going to make it! They were actually going to escape!

"By the Gods, Aramoor!" It was Bryony's voice. She was terrified.

He couldn't stop his repairs to look. "What? Tell me!"

"Dragons Aramoor! I didn't know the Scourge had dragons!"

"They didn't tell me either," said the footman grimly.

"They'll be here soon. A few minutes. Oh Gods Aramoor! They're cutting off our escape!"

Now the human did look up from his work. The crypt fiends were coming from the north, so they couldn't escape that way. Meanwhile, the undead dragons were coming up from the south. They were trapped. Either way they went the Scourge would have them. Damn.

"Uh, Aramoor? I'm out of healing potions."

Double damn.

"Hold on, I'm almost done!" he shouted.

He hammered the last parts of the zeppelin into place. The motor sputtered to life. It worked!

"Get in Bryony! It's time to go!"

"_Kiera Ceail_i! Leave me! You can't escape unless I carve a path for you through the crypt fiends."

Aramoor could see the Pathfinder was right. He didn't care.

"I'm not leaving you," Aramoor said firmly. "Get in the damn zeppelin _now_!"

"My way is the only way you can survive Aramoor, and you know it! Unless I stay we'll both die! You saved my life, human, now it's time for me to save yours."

And she gave him that look, the look she had given him once before. When she had ordered him to warn Cernick of Kirielle's necromancer army. When she had stayed behind in a suicidal bid to give the Alliance expedition time to escape. She gave him the look of fierce determination that screamed, "_I will stand my ground!_"

But Aramoor sure as hell wasn't going to stand for it this time. He had almost lost her once; he wouldn't lose her again. He may have saved her life, but she had saved his soul, even if she didn't realize it. If she died, he died. He was _not_ leaving without her!

He did the only thing he could do. He jumped out of the airship and ran at the stubborn elf. Bryony was busy loosing arrows at the undead and didn't see him until it was too late.

He _slammed_ his fist into her, as hard as he could. She crumpled into a heap. He grabbed her and _threw_ the dazed ranger into the zeppelin. Then he followed.

The crypt fiends, seeing the rain of arrows cease, surged forward to destroy the helpless airship.

"Lift, _lift_ dammit!" cried the footman, urging the machine higher. And the zeppelin did lift. He was out of range of the nerubians now, but he knew if he flew north, over them, they could snare the airship in their webs. South was the dragons. Damn.

He decided to take his chances with the crypt fiends, on the grounds that anything was better than facing dragons. He turned the zeppelin around just as the undead wyrms came in range. One of the dragons breathed a cone of frost at the airship, but Aramoor was already speeding the other way, towards the fiends. The dragon's breath missed by a handspan. Aramoor breathed a big sigh of relief.

But now he was passing over the crypt fiends, and the undead spiders had their webs out, clicking their mandibles in eager anticipation.

"This is it," he thought to himself. The end of his life. He knelt beside the dazed ranger sprawled out on the zeppelin's cabin floor.

"I'm sorry Bryony. I'm _so_ sorry."

At the exact instant the nerubians would have thrown their webs, bringing the zeppelin to earth, to destruction, the dragon's breath hit them. What goes up, must come down. And the dragon's freezing breath had come down.

It didn't kill the undead spiders, but it did slow them just enough that their webs missed the airship.

The zeppelin flew over the nerubians, cleared the Northrend coast and soared out over the sea, heading south to Lordaeron.

Aramoor laughed hysterically.

They had done the impossible. They had escaped Northrend.


	3. Part 3

Part 4

**Heartwell, Part 3**

**Chapter 26**

As the zeppelin and its two passengers escaped the horrors of Northrend, someone else who hadn't escaped, who couldn't escape, lamented her fate.

Once again, Kirielle knelt before the Frozen Throne, fervently wishing she was somewhere, anywhere else.

"You deliberately disobeyed me," grated the Lich King.

Kirielle trembled. This was it. The Great Lord would kill her for certain this time. She had chosen to spare her friend Bryony despite Ner'zhul's orders, and now she was facing the consequences. Beside her stood the dreadlord Zenedar. She didn't know why the demon was there; perhaps he was to be her executioner.

Ner'zhul addressed the dark ranger as a teacher lecturing a pupil. "When someone is first inducted into the Undead Scourge, they lose their spirit, and without it they lose their will. My will becomes theirs, and my commands are unquestioned. They become puppets, mindless brainwashed sycophants, and I pull all the strings. But for people of…heroic inclinations such as yourself, I must give a little of your essence back -- for only in this way can you retain your intelligence…your ability to learn and adapt…only in this way can you serve the Scourge to your full potential. If not for that you would be no more intelligent than a ghoul or abomination."

Ner'zhul's voice took on a harsher tone.

"Amazingly, even though I have kept the majority of your essence, with the small sliver you have left you've managed to disobey a direct order. _No one_ has _ever_ done that before. You're unique, Kirielle. A first. Out of all my countless victims, none have tried so hard to hold on to their humanity as you. Tichondrius wants you destroyed, for when a dog becomes rabid and bites at the hand of his master, he must be put down, yes?"

Kirielle moaned softly. Why was the Lich King toying with her? Why didn't he just kill her and get it over with? Ner'zhul answered the dark ranger's unspoken question.

"Were you not such a damned good general I might be inclined to agree with the demon. But the fact is that you are my best general -- on the field of battle you have never known defeat. If not for your recalcitrance, perhaps _you_ would be my most favored servant, my champion, instead of Arthas. I could offer you power beyond your wildest dreams if only you would worship me as the others do. But I know that all you want is freedom, and that is the one thing I cannot give. So your spirit must be broken and remolded. Your blasphemous fantasies of rebellion must be put to an end."

Kirielle protested. "My lord! I have always been loyal to you! I wish only to serve--"

"_Enough_!" snarled the undead lord. "How _dare_ you insult my intelligence by continuing with your charade! Have you forgotten that I know the thoughts of all my servants? I know the lies you speak before they even come out of your mouth! When I ordered you to kill those two Alliance soldiers, I knew the _second_ you decided to disregard my order! So...I sent Zenedar to do _your_ job. I sent him to kill your friend Bryony...but the idiot screwed up!"

The Lich King now directed his wrath at the dreadlord. "How could you lose?! You had three hundred crypt fiends and you couldn't kill a single ranger!! Bryony should be part of the Scourge by now; she should be a dark ranger, but instead she's flying to freedom in a zeppelin!"

"It wasn't that simple," the dreadlord grumbled. "The elf wench had lots of healing potions and--"

"And you outnumbered her three hundred to one! What the _hell_ were you doing sending in your troops piecemeal anyway? A solid rush would have overwhelmed her. Now the Scourge has lost two hundred crypt fiends and we have nothing to show for it! I'm _furious_ with both of you!"

"You don't have the authority to punish me," noted Zenedar, the hint of a smug smile playing on the edges of his face. The dreadlord seemed to be a lot more at ease than the dark ranger.

"You're right, I don't have that authority," the Lich King conceded. "But Tichondrius does."

The smile dropped off Zenedar's face in an instant.

"I've discussed the matter with Tichondrius and we have agreed on a joint punishment for you. Kirielle, you're a brilliant general, but yet you lack loyalty. Zenedar, you're an incompetent general but at least you know how to follow orders."

Ner'zhul muttered an arcane syllable and an illusionary image sprang up before the Throne. It was a map of some land Kirielle didn't recognize.

"This is the forgotten continent of Kalimdor. The Burning Legion is going to invade it shortly, and the Scourge has been…asked…to participate."

Troops deployments and invasion routes sprung up on the transparent map.

"You two will head up the initial Scourge expedition to Kalimdor. Your armies will be merged into one; your fates will be shared. Kirielle will handle the military aspects of the invasion, but Zenedar will be the overall commander. It'll be your job, dreadlord, to use your psychic powers and your race's knack for torturing hapless mortals to ensure that Kirielle is sufficiently…_motivated_ in her job as a Scourge commander."

The dark ranger's face was a picture of dismay. The dreadlord was grinning wolfishly again.

"Ah, Kirielle, there's no need to look so crestfallen. After all, I could have asked you to join the Quel'thalas invasion force instead."

The map of Kalimdor dissipated and was replaced by a map of the high elf kingdom.

"You…you're going to invade my homeland?" she asked timidly, and with no small amount of dread.

"Your _homeland_ is Northrend now, child. But yes, I am going to invade the high elf kingdom. By the time you reach Kalimdor, it should all be over. I expect Arthas will have the elves routed in a matter of days."

"Why Quel'thalas?" the dead elf asked desperately. "They're not part of the Alliance anymore. They're not threatening you in any way! If you left them alone, they'd leave you alone in turn, and you'd be free to deal with the rest of the nations of the Alliance. The high elf kingdom has no strategic value! Please, milord, listen to me, I beg you! You called me a great general, now listen to my advice-- invading Quel'thalas would be a terrible military blunder!"

"Touching. But your plea was made somewhat less persuasive by the fact that you were contemplating sending one of your arrows through me while you said it."

"I was…what?"

"Isn't that right Zenedar?" the Lich King said conversationally. "She thought about killing me when I told her I was going to invade Quel'thalas."

The demon nodded in assent. "You can't hide your thoughts from us, Kirielle."

"I hate psychics," the ranger muttered bitterly.

"Would you like to hear a story, elf?" asked the Lich King.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Well, no. But pretend that you do."

Kirielle sighed dejectedly, and the Lich King began a strange oration.

**Chapter 27**

"In my youth, in my culture, the only thing that was important was power. Everything revolved around power, and anything not connected with the pursuit of power was irrelevant. I sacrificed much in the pursuit of power; my wealth, my homeland, my life, my very soul even. And now, in this incarnation, I have true power. I have the ability to steal souls! And it wasn't until I Took my first humans that I realized that perhaps there was more to existence than...power."

Kirielle perked up. Was this a new face of the Lich King she hadn't seen yet?

"At first I killed them and Turned them to Unlife only to create more minions for myself and to sate my powerlust. But with their souls came their memories. I killed human shipwrights and learned from them how to make sturdy ships. And so the Undead Scourge gained a navy. I killed nerubians and learned how to create subterranean fortresses like the one under Icecrown. I Turned Arthas and learned how to cripple Lordaeron with but a single blow. I killed you and learned the secrets of the Quel'thalas ranger corps; the secrets you Pathfinders had passed down from one to another for centuries."

Kirielle opened her mouth to speak, but Ner'zhul ignored her and continued.

"I learned much, but it was always just a means to an end, and the end was power. I discarded memories not connected with that end, until eventually I became curious. Why were so many of the memories of humans and dwarves and elves not concerned with power? It was a quandary I couldn't figure out. So I searched among the discarded memories for an answer. Your kind, the high elves, intrigued me the most."

The Lich King paused for a minute, considering. Abruptly he changed his tact. "I was an orc once, did you know?"

"No."

The revelation sickened the high elf. She had always hated the greenskins, from the moment they had entered her beloved forests intent on slaughter and pillage. How could you respect a short-lived, cultureless, savage race that never bathed and allowed itself to be corrupted by demons? The fact that she was probably several dozen times older than her master was galling. And he mockingly called her "child!"

She would have been able to accept it if Ner'zhul had turned out to be some powerful evil demi-god, or perhaps an ancient dragon…but an _orc_?! This…this was just too shameful, too humiliating. She had been enslaved by one of the bloody greenskins!

"Yes, I was an orc, and like most orcs I fought against the Alliance and the high elves. Orcs are not a beautiful race, but even so we can recognize beauty. Like most orcs I considered the high elves a beautiful race, and therefore fragile and weak. Pointy-eared tree dwellers that were easily diced with an axe; that is what I thought of you. Your memories showed me otherwise."

Kirielle couldn't believe she was hearing this. Ner'zhul continued.

"In the stolen memories, I lived the lives of others, and many of these lives were, shockingly, not driven by powerlust. It went against everything I knew, everything I had been taught. 'These people must be mad,' I thought. But it was a happy madness. There was a rhyme, a reason, a pattern to the insanity. It was Humanity, or whatever you want to call it; it was always there. The memories were pale imitations of reality but I hungrily devoured them nonetheless. My most cherished memories are the ones that do _not_ deal with power."

The undead lord sighed a deep, weary sigh.

"And so, the truth is that I am an _insanely_ jealous Lord. I envy the living and what I have lost…But if I am to be denied this, then the living shall be denied it as well! Let the whole world wallow in Unlife; let it become a nightmarish playground for the undead! My bitterness is only outdone by my envy...but the memories make it a little better. I am addicted to the memories -- I want more, I need more!"

The Lich King was speaking fervently now.

"My powerlust is not gone, but now it has a friend -- purelust. Lifelust. I've taken Lordaeron, the purest land of humankind -- and now I bathe in the memories of pious clergymen, innocent housewives, and carefree children. It helps make the pain of my suffering almost bearable. But I need more memories! More! So I will drive the Scourge into a place purer still. Quel'thalas."

"Of course, there are other reasons for invading as well," Zenedar added.

"Please not Quel'thalas," Kirielle moaned. "My people are no threat to you…please no…"

"Yesss," hissed Ner'zhul, like a serpent. "Even now your high elf brethren are frolicking in their forests, oblivious to their impending doom. They're worried about events in Lordaeron, of course, but they have no idea how much of Terenas's kingdom has fallen under my sway."

"But the rangers will stop you," Kirielle said desperately.

"Oh, I don't think they will," the undead lord replied smugly. "For one thing, thanks to your memories I know the defenses of Quel'thalas inside and out."

The dark ranger shuddered.

"For another, on the whole your race is not warlike. High elves don't possess the spirits of warriors. You are skilled artisans, singers, and dancers; but you treat war like an eloquent game -- the gilt your golden-armored footmen wear won't protect them from the blows of Fury Incarnate -- from the blows of Arthas's army. War is not art; the orcish tribal leaders told us it was simply a matter of savagely killing your enemy in the most unfair, hideous manner possible. That is war."

"The high elves did pretty well against you orcs the last time Quel'thalas was invaded," countered Kirielle. "Sylvanas crushed the Horde's invasion force!"

"Ah, Sylvanas. Now there is one of the few high elves with a warrior spirit. Your friend Bryony is another. I look forward to welcoming them into the Scourge. Speaking of which, from now on, should you encounter Bryony or any other high elf, your standing orders are to kill them and bring them into your army, understand?"

"Yes, master," Kirielle replied dully. But she knew her voice carried a total lack of conviction.

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking of resisting the order. But I know the secret of your resistance Kirielle. I know how you kept your humanity thus far -- because I have followed the _same_ path. _Memories_. We alone have seen that the past is our salvation. And much as this creates a feeling of...kinship in me for you, I'm afraid we must part ways. There can only be one Lich King. Even after all this, I have no room in my heart for a Queen. You will have to be forcibly put in your place."

Kirielle just wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. The miserable torment of Unlife weighed more heavily on her with each passing second, it seemed.

"I have given you this oration so that you know me, understand me, and understand that I know you. It won't make sense to you now, but in the end you'll realize what I've just told you is the cornerstone of my religion. Now, I believe Zenedar has a present for you. Take it from him."

The demon held out a circlet with a light blue stone set in it. Kirielle tentatively grasped it.

"The 'stone' in the circlet is a shard from the Frozen Throne. Even the tiniest piece of it holds immense power. I've crafted it into a special artifact just for you."

The dark ranger looked it over curiously.

"I call it a Painstone; I think the name is pretty self-explanatory. It gives pain. The worst pain that I, with all of my memories and power, have ever been able to magically harness. It is total and awe-inspiring; worse than anything you have encountered in your two centuries of existence. Once put on, the circlet probes your thoughts. If it finds them insufficiently...worshipful towards me, it gives pain. It can only be taken off if you know the command word, which of course you do not. Nor will you, ever. The purpose is to turn you into an adoring servant, like you should be. It will greatly help Zenedar tame you."

The dark ranger looked stricken.

"The fact I hold your soul makes you especially susceptible to the Painstone's power. One can become numb to physical pain after a while, but spiritual pain is different...there is no escape. It is much, much worse than physical pain, as you will soon find out. I'll let your pain argue with you...and after a few days, or weeks, you'll crack. You won't be able to stand against it. You'll do anything, ANYTHING, to make the endless torture stop. Even convince yourself to worship me."

Kirielle cursed the day she was born. Existence, she realized, was a raw deal, a cruel joke. She cursed the loving parents who spawned her, who lied to her when they told her as a child that the world was a just and wonderful place. She cursed the universe itself. She hated what she had become, what she had done and what she was going to do again. Her despair was absolute. The Lich King had really outdone himself this time. _Damn_ him anyway!

"You must truly, with all your heart, adore me for the constant hurt to end. Or, you will be in exquisite agony for the rest of eternity, whichever comes first. The Painstone glows when it gives pain. When the stone stops glowing, you'll once again have my trust. Put on the circlet."

The elf had no choice. She did as she was told, and immediately the Painstone started glowing brightly. She gasped and dropped to the floor as pain the likes of which she had never known flowed through her. Her hands desperately clutched at the circlet, trying to take it off, but the artifact had welded itself to her skin.

The Lich King laughed, for in Kirielle's cries of pain he heard the sound of the damned acclaiming their god.

**Chapter 28**

"Why?"

The lone zeppelin soared over the vast ocean. Cool wind flowed through the airship's cabin window. As the two Alliance soldiers went southward they felt the freezing embrace of Northrend diminish.

Bryony looked at Aramoor curiously, as if she had never seen him before. "Why?" she asked again.

A bluish black bruise marred the elf's fair face; Aramoor had hit her pretty hard. The zeppelin's lone cabin was bare, so Bryony had propped herself up against one of the wooden walls. From this position she regarded the footman with an intense but unreadable gaze.

"Beg your pardon?" asked Aramoor.

"You hit me," the ranger said accusingly. "You didn't let me cut a path through the crypt fiends for you. You risked _everything_. Why?"

He wanted to tell her why; he wanted to tell her the truth; he wanted to look her in her face and say with heartfelt candor, "I love you."

He caught himself. He loved her? It was the first time he had actually said it to himself, admitted it to himself. It was a confirmation of something he had felt growing deep inside him, and now he had a name for it. Love.

It was amazing how far his feelings had come in only two days; he tried to place what it was about her that so attracted him.

She was a damn good fighter; the best he had ever seen. He hadn't known that it was _possible_ to fight as well as Bryony did... and yet, even more remarkably, she had kept her innocence and freespirited attitude despite it all. It was said that all battle-hardened veterans bore wounds on their soul which made for grim personalities, but yet Bryony's spirit had passed through the tempest of war virtually unscathed.

But that wasn't why he loved her.

She was beautiful, a radiant flower surrounded by the field of dull gray that was the world. She was full of Life; a perfect child of Nature. Human courtesans and doxies used make-up and alluring clothing to make themselves appear pretty, but Bryony needed no artificial means to accentuate her looks. Indeed, such fake beauty would have insulted the ranger's natural beauty. There was something mystical about the elf, something that made Aramoor think that she was what humanity would have looked like had it not taken the ugly path of civilization and technology.

But that wasn't why he loved her either.

She was honest, and brave, and motivated. She was good and pure and self-confident. Her fiery determination was inspiring and uplifting. In her personality he felt a real sense of kinship. She radiated Hope, and there was little enough of that in the world today. The world needed her. He needed her.

That, he realized, was why he loved her.

After staring Death in the face so many times, life was too short for him to do anything _but_ love her; each of those times when Death's jaws had been clamped around him, he had seen his life flash before him, and it wasn't a life he was happy with. His existence was missing some key element to it, and now he knew what it was.

He loved her, and wouldn't be complete until he had her.

But...did she love him? Certainly not. No one fell in love in two days. Except him.

In his mind's eye he could picture himself professing his absolute devotion to the ranger, only to see a look of disgust on her fair face as she turned him down. She might think him crazy for falling in love in so short a time. Or, less likely though still quite a terrifying prospect, she might be offended by the idea of a man and elf being together. High elves were notorious for being elitist and ethnocentric when it came to race relations.

In fact Aramoor had never heard of a love between human and elf that hadn't ended in tragedy...even if the Alliance won war; even if the two of them survived that victory (and those were two very big ifs) -- he'd grow to be an old man while Bryony was still in the prime of her life--was romance even possible between the two races? Was it wrong of him to think of asking for that kind of commitment from the ranger?

He wanted desperately to know her feelings, but he would have to content himself with simply being her friend for now. He wouldn't profess his love until he was certain of a positive response; he wasn't sure he could live with the stamp of rejection. He feared that even more than he feared Death itself.

Abruptly he realized the ranger was waiting for an answer to her question.

"Why?"

He decided to give her half the truth.

"I couldn't let you die," the human said quietly.

The elf vigorously shook her head. A lock of gold hair fell across her face, and she brushed it angrily aside. "It wasn't your decision to make! You had no right to do what you did!"

"You're angry that I saved your life?" asked the footman incredulously.

Bryony's demeanor changed instantly. "No," she said gently, apologetically. "I'm not ungrateful. Twice you've saved me now, and I swear to you I'll repay your kindness. But...Gods Aramoor! What madness possessed you? It was a Light-blessed miracle we survived! If not for that dragon's breath..."

The ranger shook her head again.

"You should have left me behind," she stated firmly. "It was the only reasonable choice. Only one of us needed to escape to warn King Terenas of the danger, and if I had stayed behind I could have made your escape easy."

"At the cost of your own life!"

"A price I would gladly pay," countered the Pathfinder coolly. "I would gladly give my life to save another's, it's something all rangers are sworn to do. But the goal...the goal of warning Terenas of the danger...that is something worth more than both our lives. The goal was too important to be risked by...by the stunt you pulled."

In truth Aramoor valued Bryony's life much more than the goal of warning King Terenas. But he knew the duty-driven elf probably wouldn't be amenable to that view, so he quickly made up an alternate explanation.

"You needed to survive. Do you really think the Alliance would believe a ragged footman in a zeppelin claiming to be the sole survivor of Arthas's expedition? I'm a nobody -- just a Private from a small Lordaeron town. But you...you're an elven Pathfinder -- a hero! They'd give you an audience with the King in a second -- they'd probably lock me up in a mad house, or maybe they wouldn't even bother-- maybe they'd just kick me into the mud of the gutter, laughing all the while."

Bryony was shocked. "Your brethren would really take so little stock in your words? I admit I don't know much about humankind, but…I had no idea it was like that... In Quel'thalas _anyone_ can request an audience with the Council of Silvermoon, even the most destitute farmer, and their voice will be heard."

"Unfortunately, Lordaeron is not Quel'thalas. The nobles rule with absolute power, and seldom interact with their subjects. The one time the peasants of my town petitioned the local lord to act, the man had them all arrested and sentenced to…"

Aramoor's voice trailed off. He had seen something outside the airship window, and it was not something he wanted to see. An intense feeling of foreboding overcame the human. The ranger must have seen something of the look on his face.

"What? What is it?"

"Bryony..." said the footman, softly. "I see Lordaeron."

"That's ridiculous, we're at least a day's journey away--"

"I see smoke on the horizon. Lordaeron is burning."

**Chapter 29**

The two survivors of Arthas's expedition were at last returning home, but home wasn't as they remembered it...

For one thing, all the northern port cities were in flames.

For another, there were no people about. The zeppelin passed the fires, sailing into areas yet untouched by flame --heavily populated areas where there should have been people. Although there were many villages and towns, all were deserted -- there was no sign of those who lived there, or what might have become of them...

One hour after crossing Lordaeron's northern border, the two Alliance soldiers had not seen a single living human or animal. An eerie, unnatural silence had descended over the land, and black clouds filled the gray sky.

"Could the Scourge have gotten here before us?" wondered Aramoor aloud. "Was there some kind of mass evacuation we didn't know about? It was bad enough being alone on Northrend...but here..."

"It's like we're the only living people left in the world," murmured the high elf.

By late afternoon they had sighted the Capitol City. At last, here, they saw signs of life, though they were hardly reassuring. Bodies and debris littered the wide paved boulevards. Parts of the city were on fire. Dark figures scurried through the streets, and Aramoor got the distinct impression that they weren't human. Or, at least not human anymore. It seemed the Scourge was in control of at least parts of the Capitol. They were too late.

Gunshots sounded in the distance, so apparently some resistance was being put up. But every time Aramoor sent the zeppelin towards the sounds of combat, the battle would be over by the time he arrived. There would be fresh corpses, some human or dwarven, some with the Scourge, but no sign of survivors so it was impossible to tell who won. It seemed confused fighting was taking place all over the city.

Finally the footman gave up and steered the airship towards the towering white spires of the Royal Palace. It was the heart of the Alliance, and he figured it had to be the best defended place in the city. If there was any organizing force to the resistance against the Scourge, the Palace was where it would be.

Unfortunately, the ivory-colored castle seemed to be deserted. There was no sign of any guards, but then there was no sign of any fighting either. Perhaps the Scourge hadn't gotten this far into the city yet.

Aramoor parked the airship next to a third floor balcony; if they needed to make a quick escape it would be better than trying to take off from the ground. Thankful that he had re-equipped himself with weapons and armor at the Alliance settlement in Northrend, Aramoor leapt from the airship onto the balcony, sword in hand. An open door led into a luxuriously furnished bedroom.

Warily he entered the room while the ranger covered his advance with her longbow. The footman was looking for threats, but what he found was…treasures. There were alabaster busts, colorful tapestries, porcelain vases, lacquered tables, paintings which surely must be worth a fortune. Whoever this bedroom belonged to was definitely a high ranking member of the Lordaeron government. Perhaps one of Terenas's councilors even.

It was all very awe-inspiring to someone who had grown up on a farm in a backwater village. Aramoor stopped to regard a chess board on an enameled teak table. Picking up one of the yellow playing pieces, he hefted it in the palm of his hand. "Solid gold," he breathed wondrously.

"Human decadence," sneered the high elf distastefully.

A muffled sound came from under a covered bed. In an instant, the two Alliance soldiers were in combat stances. The gold chess piece clattered to the floor, forgotten.

"Come out from under there," Aramoor ordered. "We're with the Alliance. If you're among the living you have nothing to fear."

Gingerly, a satin sheet was thrust aside and a young woman came out from under the bed. She wore a richly embroidered white dress, diamond earrings, and an opal necklace. She was pretty, though not as pretty as Bryony. Her facial features were sharp, and her hair was golden yellow.

For some reason the woman reminded Aramoor of…Arthas? Or what Arthas would have looked like if he had--

"You're Princess Calia!" Aramoor blurted out. Arthas's older sister. The family resemblance was definitely there.

The woman looked at them uncertainly, timidly, like a child caught by her parents in the act of doing something bad.

"Please don't hurt me," Calia whispered fearfully in a cultured accent.

It was then that the footman noticed a slight purplish tinge to the woman's skin, and his stomach churned. The Princess of Lordaeron had the plague.

**Chapter 30**

From his experiences with the plague, Aramoor estimated that Calia had at least several hours of normal life left. Unfortunately, the Princess told them that no cure for the disease of Unlife had yet been found.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?" she said sadly.

"What's been going on here?" Aramoor wanted to know. "Why are there undead in the city? Where is your father's army?"

The Princess told a tale of great woe.

Her brother had returned from Northrend in a single ship, announcing victory over Mal'Ganis and the Undead Scourge. The Prince said the rest of his expedition would be returning shortly. King Terenas ordered a great celebration to be held in honor of his son's return, but it turned out to be a naive welcome.

"I was in the throne room; I saw it all. My brother…he was different. His hair was white, his skin was so pale, his _eyes_…oh gods! His eyes spoke of cold death. He took out this big sword and…and…" the Princess had to stop for a moment to compose herself. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she dabbed at them with a silk handkerchief.

"He ran Father through. He…he _killed_ him! Everyone was so shocked, no one tried to stop Arthas from leaving. When Arthas pierced Father's heart with his sword, it was like he pierced the heart of Lordaeron too. Almost immediately, all over the city, fires started breaking out. It was the Cult of the Damned, and they were going after the grain silos and food warehouses--the places they hadn't been able to infect with the plague. Disease spread everywhere in the Capitol. The army was in chaos, the city was burning, people collapsed dead in the streets, ghouls and zombies lurked in the alleyways...it all happened in a single day. There was an exodus of people from the Capitol, but I think it only helped to spread the plague further."

"If Terenas is dead, and Arthas is with the Scourge, then who's running the country?" asked Aramoor. "Certainly not you?"

"Nobody's running much of anything," the Princess responded sorrowfully. "As I understand it, in the past few days most of Lordaeron has been ravaged by the undead. I was never expected to inherit the throne, the right to succession passes to the males; the crown would have gone to Arthas under normal circumstances...but now…" her voice trailed off.

"Where is Arthas now?"

"All my servants and bodyguards were dead or worse. The Palace was abandoned, and I couldn't leave because the undead were everywhere. So I locked myself in my room and hid under the bed."

She stared at her feet, wringing her hands, shame painted on her face.

"And that's when my brother came to visit me. Somehow he knew where I was. He bashed down my door when I wouldn't open it for him. But he wasn't the Arthas I knew and loved. We'd always been close, we'd always been there for each other, though lately we'd drifted apart a bit. Father married me off to Duke Sentius of Gilneas so I spent half the year there. And Arthas joined the Paladins, so we didn't see much of each other, but we kept in touch. I wrote him a letter every month, and I was so worried when he stopped replying. I was right to be worried. My worst nightmares have come true."

"What did Arthas do to you? Infect you with the plague?"

Calia laughed bitterly. "I already had the plague, along with most of my subjects. When Arthas came to me, he came with his sword drawn. He was so cold…so heartless, looking into those dead eyes I just _knew_ he was going to kill me. Me! On his twelfth birthday I bought him the toy soldier he wanted so much! I snuck out with him at night to play in the Royal Gardens despite Father's curfew! I was his best friend in childhood, and he came at me with his sword drawn! I think he would have killed me too, if not for the fact I was plagued. Instead he just stared at me a while, then he said he would find a good place for me in the Lich King's hierarchy, and then he left."

"Who the hell is the Lich King?"

"He's the leader of the Undead Scourge, I think. I can hear him, in my head. At first his voice was soft, but it keeps getting louder, more persuasive, more hypnotic. I don't know how much longer I can resist."

"This…voice in your head… What is it telling you?"

"The Lich King wants me to worship him. He tells me that great power and immortality will be mine if I bow down before him. He's telling me to do terrible things…"

Suddenly a baby's cry came from under the covered bed.

"That's my son," Calia explained as she pulled an infant in swaddling clothes out from under the bed. "Alvar is his name. He's only two weeks old. He hasn't eaten in two days…I was afraid to give him anything because of the plague. He's not diseased, thank the Light."

"Shhh, darling," the Princess cooed to the baby, but the crying didn't cease.

Aramoor looked nervously at the doorway that led from Calia's bedchamber to the rest of the Palace. On the floor lay the shattered splinters of the door itself -- Arthas had really demolished the thing. Hopefully there weren't any undead lingering in the Palace.

"Get that baby quiet," he hissed. "We don't want to attract any unwanted attention."

But no matter what the Princess did, Alvar would not stop crying.

"Let me try," said Bryony, and Calia reluctantly handed over the baby. The Pathfinder started whispering soothingly to Alvar in Elvish. Almost immediately the crying diminished, and then ceased totally.

"How did you do that?" gasped Calia as the ranger handed the baby back. "Did you cast a magic spell?"

"Not really," replied the Pathfinder. "But I thought my voice might do the trick. Female high elf voices are slightly magical. The sound can have a soothing effect; it can touch the soul of those who hear it. Some even say they can hear the voice of lost or distant loved ones by listening to female high elves."

Aramoor was shocked. Was that why Bryony's voice had sounded so similar to Christina's when they had first met? Because of an innate magical ability the high elf possessed? The events that had been set in motion that night on the Northrend glacier had changed his life, but looking back, he realized Bryony's voice was nothing like his sister's. But yet it had taken him all this time to see, or rather, hear the obvious. Bryony was not Christina or a replacement for Christina. The elf was a unique individual, wonderful like Christina had been, but for different reasons. And that was a good thing, Aramoor was certain.

"How did you come by that…ability?" queried the footman.

"The exact reason has been lost to time, but the most popular story is that it was given to us by Ysera, the great Green Dragon that lives in the Emerald Dream. She wanted the perfect lullaby to give her green dragon children a peaceful sleep, and our naturally musical voices were perfect for her needs. Every year the High Choir of Silvermoon sings a song in homage to Ysera and her children; legend has it the song keeps the green dragons asleep for another year."

"What do male high elves get instead of the magic voice?" asked Calia.

"Nothing," Bryony replied, smiling.

"Sounds like a good deal for the women!"

"Well, it's not all good. It makes us females vulnerable to a certain kind of Undeath. Thankfully it's very rare."

"Like the kind of Undeath Kirielle is damned with?" Aramoor pressed.

"Yes. I'm talking about banshees, and thankfully the only one we've seen in the Scourge is Kirielle. Banshees can only be created under special circumstances. Usually when a female high elf dies, her spirit heads for the Sunwell to achieve eternal rest. But a few elf spirits get lost on the way, and others aren't pure enough to enter the Well because of heinous deeds they committed in life. Thus a banshee is born. The poor elf spirit is cursed to wander the world, and her sorrowful wails can actually harm the living. The elf keeps her magical voice, but the sound is twisted by Undeath into a weapon. Kirielle is kind of unique because she still has a physical body; most banshees are encountered in spirit form."

Talking of her dark ranger friend had made Bryony noticeably more subdued. Aramoor decided to change the subject.

"Isn't there any kind of effective opposition to the Scourge?" the footman asked Calia.

"Well, Lordaeron was the strongest nation in the Alliance, and my father was the de facto leader of the Alliance. So things look pretty bad right now. The only real organized Alliance army right now is under Jaina Proudmoore at Port Sanwyn."

"What's she doing leading an army?"

"Ah, it's a strange story. A couple months ago she started going to all the different monarchs of the Alliance, preaching about how the end was near and humanity's only hope lay across the sea in a land called Kalimdor. Of course, everyone thought she was crazy, and no one wanted to foot the bill for the expedition she was planning. But now, the strongest nation in the Alliance is on the verge of collapse, and thanks to magical sendings all the other monarchs know. They've decided that maybe Jaina's predictions of doom weren't so silly after all. Some priests are even going so far as to say that she is a messenger from the gods, and the monarchs are paying the price for not heeding her words."

"I don't like the sound of this," Aramoor said, frowning. "Jaina could be leading her expedition into a trap. She could be working for the Scourge just like Arthas! "

"I know it's hard to decide who to trust anymore," replied the Princess. "But Jaina seems pretty level-headed. I met her several times when she was…dating my brother. Before my retainers deserted me or died, my wizards were in magical communication with the other Alliance nations. They're sending Jaina food, money, even soldiers! If you hurry to Port Sanwyn you should be able to catch her before she leaves."

Alvar had started crying again. Calia looked at her son fretfully, and then looked at Bryony.

"Alvar can't stay here. You know that. Will you take him to Port Sanwyn for me? Will you take care of him for me? I haven't fed him...I haven't given him my milk...because I knew...about the plague. He needs someone to take care of him, please!" the Princess begged. "He's only two weeks old! He needs a wet nurse. Please--"

"A _what_?!" cried the Pathfinder in wide-eyed shock. "You can't _possibly_ mean--"

"Don't you see?" the Princess said despairingly, "There's no one else! You're most likely the only unplagued woman within three day's travel of here! And you're good with him! He stopped crying because of you! He likes you!" She pressed the crying baby back into the elf's hands.

"He likes my voice," said the ranger, looking at the infant dubiously.

"You only need to be his caretaker until you get to Port Sanwyn. I have a friend in the Alliance military stationed there. He's a noble, a Baron named Kirkendale. Take my son to him and tell him what happened. The Scourge killed my husband, so Kirkendale is my best hope for giving Alvar a new father. I'm certain the Baron will be willing to take care of my son."

"I…guess I can help you," said Bryony slowly, still somewhat stunned.

"Oh thank you! Thank you!" the Princess gushed. "Your arrival has been a Light-blessed miracle! Bless you both!"

Calia ran to a nearby desk, grabbed a pen and piece of parchment, and started to write furiously. When she was finished, she folded the parchment, stamped it with her royal seal, and handed it to Aramoor. "Give this letter to Kirkendale."

Then the Princess gently took Alvar from Bryony and kissed him on the forehead.

"Goodbye, sweet one," Calia said tearfully. Looking up at the two Alliance soldiers, the plagued woman had one last request.

"Kill me."

**Chapter 31**

Port Sanwyn was bustling with activity. Hundreds of ships of all shapes and sizes were anchored in the city's large natural harbor, and their white sails reflected the brilliant light of the midday sun. With awe Aramoor noted that Jaina's fleet consisted of about eight hundred ships; that was more than four times the number Arthas had taken to Northrend. It was certainly the largest fleet that had been assembled in living memory, perhaps in the whole of history.

It had taken the zeppelin three days to reach the seaport, during which time the two Alliance soldiers had had to deal with soiled diapers, vomit, and other assorted joys of childrearing. Neither of them had any experience caring for infants, so it had been an educational encounter, to say the least. Bryony's soothing Elvish lullabies had been a lifesaver -- Alvar's crying was stopped as soon as it started. By the end of the trip the elf had gotten the hang of being a wet nurse too. But still, Aramoor would be glad to hand off the baby to Calia's friend in the city.

Unfortunately, their arrival in the seaport did not go well. No one seemed much interested in their tale of the Northrend expedition's decimation; apparently the Alliance had suffered far worse disasters since then. The only significant information they discovered was that Baron Kirkendale had left on one of the first ships to sail for Kalimdor. It looked like they were going to have to care for Alvar a little longer.

Eventually Bryony found an old friend, a stern, sandy-haired elven priest of the Light who had recently joined the Alliance. His name was Berian. The priest got them assigned to the same ship he was on -- a Kul Tiras sloop named the _Sprite_, one of smaller ships in fleet, but still a sturdy vessel.

Every day, more and more ships left the harbor, while a few vessels arrived carrying refugees from all parts of Lordaeron. The refugees told horrible stories, of entire cities being razed, of people starving to death for lack of unplagued food, of the demise of the great hero Uther Lightbringer at the hands of Arthas, and worse. The war, it seemed, was not going well for the Alliance.

A week later, the Scourge descended on Port Sanwyn, and all the remaining ships that could flee did so. The _Sprite_ was one of the last to leave. As the ship's passengers and crew watched the port burn behind them, Aramoor could not help but feel that this was the end of an era.

The sun had set on the kingdom of Lordaeron, the shining jewel of the North. The course of humanity had been changed forever. As they sailed into uncharted waters, the footman fervently hoped the course they were on was a better one.

**Chapter 32**

Most of the sloop's passengers were desperate people -- refugees who had lost all they owned to Scourge. The sailors acted gruffly towards them at first, but as the days passed the walls of difference were gradually worn down. People from nearly every nation and race in the Alliance were represented, each with their own stories to tell and culture to share. In this environment a general spirit of camaraderie evolved, and many new friendships were formed.

The priest Berian was the highest ranking-Alliance soldier on the ship, but he spent most of his time below decks in his cabin. The few times the elf had spoken with Aramoor, he had come off as moody and irritable.

On the seventh day of the voyage, Aramoor finally asked Bryony what her friend's problem was.

"He's in mourning," Bryony had explained. "He was Kirielle's lover. When she didn't come back from Northrend, he decided to join the Alliance. He's consumed with avenging his girlfriend's death."

After that, Aramoor avoided Berian whenever possible. Something about the brooding priest was intensely disquieting to the footman, though he couldn't place exactly what it was.

When not taking care of Alvar, Bryony spent most of her time above-decks, where the air was fresh and the space wasn't so cramped. Aramoor made sure to be by her side at every opportunity.

"Can you believe that in all my 214 years of life I've never been on a ship?" she remarked to the footman one day.

"Well how'd you get to Northrend then?"

"By dragonhawk," she said simply. "I was taught the mastery of beasts long ago."

Aramoor was about to ask the ranger more about it, but she had already flounced off.

Giddy with excitement and bright-eyed curiosity, the Pathfinder roamed the _Sprite_, asking sailors questions, making smalltalk with the ship's captain, and generally making a nuisance of herself. Of course the human sailors were more than amenable to stopping their work to chat with a pretty high elf. Aramoor couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as Bryony stared in rapt attention to some sea dog telling her wild tales of the ocean blue. But if the ranger ever noticed the sailors' open affections or his own, she never made any indication of it. The footman hoped the elf's obliviousness was a result of her innocent naivete, rather than a tacit rejection on her part.

Aramoor realized he was witnessing a new, vibrant part of Bryony's personality. Now that the danger of combat was remote, the high elf was flourishing. Was this her true personality? Her non-war personality? He found himself loving her more than ever, but yet he could never screw up enough courage to come out in the open with his feelings. He cursed himself for being a coward, but the fear of rejection was just too great to overcome.

**Chapter 33**

Aided by a strong wind and clear weather, the _Sprite_ made good time. They had lost sight of the other ships in the expedition, but the captain assured everyone they were on course. As weeks passed, the crew and passengers settled into a routine. For Aramoor this meant trying to get to know Bryony better. The elf was very interested in human culture, and the footman did his best to sate her curiosity.

Unfortunately, the ranger seemed mostly interested in the darker side of the human race. The Nature-loving elf couldn't understand why humans clear-cut forests, hunted game to extinction in many areas, and allowed their mining operations to poison the surrounding countryside. Aramoor did his best to stress that the human race was a very diverse bunch, with many villains as well as heroes.

Of course, the cultural exchange was not just in one direction. Bryony loved talking about her homeland, Quel'thalas. Her eyes took on a misty, dreamlike quality as she spoke of verdant gardens, majestic castles, and wondrous enchanted glades. The elf made it seem as if her homeland was a paradise, a perfect land free from the (human) problems of drought, disease, banditry, prostitution, war and the like.

"We've spent ten thousand years building our version of utopia there," the Pathfinder said. "One day you should come and see it for yourself."

"I'd like that," the footman said earnestly.

Later, in an effort to drive the conversation away from the failings of humankind, Aramoor found himself trying to explain how jousting tournaments worked.

"I don't get it," Bryony said for maybe the twentieth time. "What's the point of knights trying to impale each other with lances? I thought they all swore fealty to the same lord, King Terenas."

"They do. It's non-lethal combat."

"Training you mean?"

"No. They're fighting for their honor and the honor of their lady."

"Now who's this lady again?"

"She's the knight's sponsor."

"And he needs a sponsor because…"

"Because of the code of chivalry!" Aramoor said, exasperated.

"Well we don't really have anything like these…jousting tournaments in Quel'thalas."

"But you must have some kind of tournaments or competitions, something like it, right?"

"I suppose. As a ranger, to go up in rank you have to join a Great Hunt. It's a test of your ranger skills--survival, hunting, archery, tracking, and animal taming. It takes place over several weeks, and while there are usually several hundred participants, only ten are chosen for promotion. Kirielle and I were the only rangers ever to win more than five Great Hunts in a row," Bryony said proudly. "I'm in the highest cadre of rangers now -- the Pathfinders. Only Sylvanas outranks me."

"If you have such a high rank, how come Sylvanas let you join the Alliance?"

"Ah, well, the army of Quel'thalas only really assembles in times of war. We're all volunteers; there are no conscripts like in the Alliance. In peacetime, which is most of the time, I can pretty much do what I want. I have certain duties of course, and if a higher ranking officer gives me an order I have to follow it, but mostly I'm left to my own devices."

"So it's like you're on near-permanent furlough?"

"Well, the ranger corps isn't just an army; it's a way of life -- we hunt to put food on the table for our brothers and sisters, we preserve Nature's balance, we fight forest fires, we patrol the borders, we put down dangerous beasts, we plant and nurture trees…the ranger corps is _nothing_ like an Alliance army."

"It seems you don't like the Alliance that much."

"I guess I just don't understand them. I only joined up to find Kirielle. I figured there was safety in numbers when traveling to Northrend, and Arthas's expedition provided that. Of course," she added quickly, "Now my allegiance to the Alliance is based more on…"

"Revenge?" Aramoor prompted. "For what the Scourge did to your friend?"

"Revenge is an empty way of life. Flawed though it is, the Alliance is still the best hope of defeating of the Scourge. Undeath is an abomination; it's blasphemy against Nature. Now I fight to make sure that what was done to Kirielle will _never_ happen again."

The days passed quickly, and Aramoor was content. For the first time in a long time he was able to relax. There were no enemies to fight, and no officers to knuckle his forehead to. Even though the Scourge had ravaged his homeland, now they seemed a very distant threat. At last he could close his eyes at night without fear of an undead thing slitting his throat while he slept. He had a good feeling about this expedition, a very good feeling; it was the opposite of how he had initially felt about Arthas's expedition.

When not talking with Bryony, the footman spent his time lounging on the deck, feeling the cool ocean breeze flow through his hair, and listening to the sound of water gently lapping against the ship's wooden hull. Somehow, though, he got the feeling that this was the calm before the storm.

**Chapter 34**

"It's outrageous! Scandalous!" shouted Berian, shaking his wooden staff at Bryony.

Aramoor, and most of the other passengers and crew on deck had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation.

"How could you…_defile_ yourself by nursing that…_creature_!" exclaimed the hawk-faced priest, pointing a trembling finger at Alvar. The ranger clutched the baby protectively.

"He's not a creature, he's a human," Bryony said defensively. "And I promised his mother I'd take care of him. You didn't seem to mind it earlier in the voyage."

"I didn't _know_ about it earlier in the voyage!" snarled Berian, incensed. "Or I'd have certainly have put a stop to it. How you no care at all for your dignity? Our races should keep a respectful distance from one another; that's the way it has always been. If we didn't share common enemies, our kind would have nothing to do with the _humans_. They are allies in combat only."

"I don't see it that way," Bryony replied, matching Berian's heat.

"Oh please!" sneered the priest disdainfully. "We were building great cities and mastering the most powerful of magics while the primitive human savages were still swinging from trees. How can you even consider--"

"I've heard that humans and elves share common ancestry."

"Nonsense!" Berian retorted. "A lie told by human scholars to make themselves feel somewhat less inferior. They are an uncivilized, decadent, immoral culture that live out short, meaningless, pathetic existences apart from the doctrines of the Holy Light."

Angry murmurs sounded through crowd. Except for a few dwarves, most of them were human, and they certainly didn't like what they were hearing.

"From now on you are to stop being the human's nurse, do you understand me?"

Bryony was silent. She had a look of intense consternation about her, and perhaps it was Aramoor's imagination, but she seemed a little pale as well.

"I _order_ you to get rid of that baby!"

"Berian, I…I think something's wrong."

The priest's anger was replaced by genuine puzzlement. "Wrong? What--"

"Something is very, _very_ wrong!" cried the ranger, a look of utter horror on her face. "_Something terrible has happened_!"

And with that, the ranger collapsed face-first onto the deck. Seconds later, Berian fainted as well.

**Chapter 35**

Aramoor sat beside Bryony in the ship's makeshift infirmary, worry etched on his features. The ranger slumbered in her bed, but it was not a peaceful sleep. Her breathing was shallow and she groaned fitfully.

There was no apparent cause of the illness that had suddenly taken hold of the ship's only two high elves. Nothing seemed to be wrong with them physically, and they did not have the telltale signs of the plague.

As Berian was the ship's only healer, and he was just as unresponsive as Bryony, there was precious little information to go on.

Aramoor was scared. Scared of losing his hope, his angel. He hadn't prayed to the Light since the death of Christina, but he prayed now, and harder than he ever had before. If Bryony died…he didn't think he could go on. Why hadn't he professed his love to her! Why had he waited?! What a stupid fool he had been! Now it might be too late.

A day passed, the longest day of Aramoor's life. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming, but at least the ranger's condition hadn't noticeably worsened. The footman passed the time kneeling by her bedside, desperately clutching one of Bryony's limp, slender hands in his own. He didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. Instead he prayed, as if the fervor of his propitiation would be enough to inject some life into the sick elf.

When Berian came out of his slumber, Aramoor thought his prayers were answered. The priest looked gaunt, and he had a grim tightness in his bearing, but otherwise it looked as though he had made a full recovery. Hope surged through the footman, for if Berian could recover, certainly Bryony could too.

When asked about what had happened, the priest offered little, save that he had a hypothesis about the nature of the sickness and would need some time to confirm it. But that wasn't good enough for Aramoor.

"You're a healer! Bryony needs your help! _Do something_!" the footman demanded, clutching the priest's pristine white robe.

"Unhand me, knave," spat Berian, his eyes mere slits. " I think I know what the problem is, but I must make sure before I attempt treatment. Now…I'm going to retire to my cabin. I will not be disturbed. In a few hours, I'll return, hopefully with a cure."

Reluctantly, the footman released his hold on the priest's robe.

**Chapter 36**

Three hours later, Berian returned. A small group of curious onlookers had crowded into the cabin where Bryony lay, and Aramoor stood at their forefront.

"I have been in magical contact with my brethren in Dalaran," the priest announced. "I think Bryony will recover, but _this_ should speed up the process."

He produced a blue potion from the folds of his robe.

"That's ridiculous," protested Aramoor. "I recognize that kind of potion…all it does is restore mana. It doesn't heal anything!"

"Silence fool!" snapped the priest. "You must appreciate the nature of the disease in order to cure it."

Berian strode purposefully to Bryony's side and uncorked the potion's stopper. With a swift motion the priest forced open the sleeping elf's mouth and poured the blue liquid inside. The effect was almost immediate.

The ranger coughed pitifully, choking on the thick fluid, and her eyes fluttered open.

"Wha…what? Berian? What's going on? What happened to me? _Gods_! I feel so empty inside!"

The priest sighed. "I have some bad news, old friend. About Quel'thalas, and most especially about the Sunwell."

**Chapter 37**

Berian related what he had learned from his magical contact with the elves in Dalaran.

Arthas had attacked Quel'thalas. When the undead first invaded, the elves were confident they would win...but the confidence turned to panic as Arthas's undead cleaved through Sylvanas's army with terrifying speed. In a matter of days both Elf Gates had fallen and the capitol Silvermoon was under siege for the first time ever. The defenders fought valiantly, but the fallen human Prince was reinforced constantly.

Every elf that fell in battle meant another soldier for the Scourge. Many of Arthas's troops wore tattered elven armor, but even more wore the clothes of elven commoners, of helpless men, women and children. A campaign of genocide was committed, and the elves despaired at having to fight against those who only hours earlier had been their friends, family, and countrymen.

The Council of Silvermoon decreed that retreat was not an option; the high elves had spent millennia crafting their forests into a natural paradise; they would not abandon their homeland to the foul taint of the Scourge. Also, they could not allow their sacred Sunwell fall into enemy hands--it was the source of their mystical powers and every high elf was linked to it. Thus Silvermoon, the beautiful Capitol of Quel'thalas, became a blasted, battered battleground. But on the seventh day of the siege, as Arthas's army advanced to the city gates once more, the Council saw Sylvanas with them, and at last knew the end had come. The sight of their beloved ranger general fighting with the Scourge was a terrible blow to morale; the defense collapsed and the undead overran the Capitol.

With victory his, Arthas read a declaration, amplified by magic, that sounded throughout the burning elf city:

"Citizens of Silvermoon! I have given you ample opportunities to surrender, but you have stubbornly refused! Know that today, your entire race and ancient heritage will end! Death itself has come to claim the high home of the elves."

And with that, the fallen Prince polluted the Sunwell's waters of infinite pureness.

A few of the more aged elves had died outright, killed by the shock of their sacred fountain's corruption. Others, such as Bryony and Berian, had fallen ill.

The Pathfinder wept despondently in her bed. "It's over, it's finished," she sobbed. "Our race is doomed. My friends and family…oh gods! The Scourge will damn them for all eternity!"

Aramoor tried his best to comfort her. "I'm sure Arthas didn't kill all your people. Plenty of them must have escaped when they saw Silvermoon was about fall."

"Don't you see?!" she wailed. "If the Sunwell was polluted, that means the ranger corps is gone too! They'd have fought to the last to honor their vows to protect it. I should've been with them, been there to fight alongside them! I failed in my duty. I'm disgraced, dishonored forever!"

"Nonsense," Aramoor countered. "If you'd have been there you'd have died too."

"Yes," she said bitterly. "I should've died like the rest of the rangers, with honor in battle."

Solemnly, the Pathfinder began to recite her vows from memory.

"_You are my hope, my future,_

_you bring peace and serenity to my soul,_

_and guide me to the greater path._

_You are my light, my warmth,_

_my purity and strength._

_You are my Sunwell, you are me,_

_and I vow to protect you, and honor you,_

_as long as I draw breath_."

The ranger's face was one of absolute sorrow.

"_Ekasa kerisi_. Everything I have ever believed in has died today."

**Chapter 38**

The remainder of the journey to Kalimdor was not pleasant. The mood of Byrony and Berian was dark, and it rubbed off on the other occupants of the ship.

The ranger's transformation appalled Aramoor. Where once she had been spirited and carefree, now she was sullen and moody. She no longer had any interest in caring for Alvar, or learning about human culture. Her insatiable curiosity had been replaced by an insatiable hunger for revenge.

It seemed inconceivable that only days ago she had told Aramoor that revenge was an empty way of life. But that had been a different Bryony; a different person.

The footman didn't like this new Bryony, who spent every waking hour in self-training for combat. Although the small sloop was not well suited to being a target range, nobody had the nerve to tell the elf to desist when she set up crude targets around the ship. She never missed those targets either. Everyone on the ship stepped clear of the ranger; she was murder walking.

Often Aramoor would find the elf curled up on the ship's deck at night, her longbow cradled in her arms, fast asleep after a day of grueling archery practice. Gently he would take the bow from her, and carry her to her bunk belowdecks.

The footman tried everything he could think of to cheer up the forlorn elf, but to no avail. In fact she told him in no uncertain terms that she did not appreciate his "unnecessary interruption of her training exercises".

Bryony changed in other ways as well. Every morning after waking, as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, the ranger would close her eyes and silently kneel on the wooden deck of the ship in the direction of Quel'thalas. Sometimes she would draw her belt knife. At first Aramoor couldn't figure out what the Pathfinder was doing, for she was unapproachable during these times. Finally he decided she must be praying. He figured that was good; at least she had her faith in Nature and the Light to fall back on.

At last, mercifully, the journey ended. The ship's lookout spotted land on the horizon, and within hours they had dropped anchor off the coast of a lush country.

Kalimdor.

**Chapter 39**

Linking up with the rest of Jaina's expedition was no problem, thanks to Berian's skill at magical communication.

Soon a base camp was established, with the flag of the Alliance flying proudly overhead.

After much searching through the chaotic mass of newly-arrived soldiers and civilians, Aramoor found Baron Kirkendale, and handed over baby Alvar and Princess Calia's letter.

The Baron, a middle-aged man with a touch of gray in his jet black hair, had promised the footman that he would be well rewarded for his "unwavering service to the Terenas dynasty." Whatever that meant.

Housing was in short supply, so the passengers and crew of the _Sprite_ were forced to continue living on the sloop.

Meanwhile, the high elves of the expedition had called for a conclave of their kind to be held to discuss the recent events in Quel'thalas. Only those of elven heritage were welcome to attend, which fostered a certain amount of suspicion and resentment among the other Alliance troops. But Jaina had okayed the meeting, so it was held as planned.

Bryony attended, as did Berian. They both coolly refused to tell Aramoor what had been discussed when he asked.

The immediate result of the conclave was the promotion of Berian to the rank of General. Apparently the high elves had come to Jaina with a list of "concerns," one of them being the lack of elven commanders in the expedition.

Magical contact with Lordaeron continued, but the news was always bad. Banshees had begun appearing in the ranks of the Scourge with frightening regularity. They were the slaughtered elf women of Quel'thalas, and their anguished wails were the funeral dirge of a dying race. With no Sunwell to go to for eternal rest, now every female high elf that died could have her essence gathered up at a Scourge temple of the damned. Could and would.

Even worse, Arthas's army could not be stopped. The Magicracy of Dalaran was attacked by the fallen Prince, and magical communication was cut off abruptly, in mid-sentence.

After that, there was no more contact with Lordaeron of any kind. Jaina's expedition was on its own.

This served to darken the mood of the already morose high elves; Dalaran had been the only real bastion of elven strength outside of Quel'thalas. If the magical nation had been defeated, the last hopes of a high elf recovery in Lordaeron had likely been crushed as well.

Jaina created busy-work for her soldiers to keep them from thinking about just how dire their situation had become. Patrols were sent out, outposts were established, crops were planted, and dens of monsters were eradicated.

The greatest surprise to everyone was the discovery of orcs on the forgotten continent. After several bloody confrontations, Jaina announced to her troops that the greenskins had come to Kalimdor for the same reason the Alliance had -- to defeat a greater evil that threatened the whole world. The evil was a demonic army known as the Burning Legion, and within days of Jaina's announcement, the sky was raining fire. For the first time ever, the Horde and Alliance were forced to join together to ensure their own survival.


	4. Part 4

Part 4

**Heartwell, Part 4**

**Chapter 40**

Berian's scouting force had stopped its trek through the dense forest.

Bryony knelt on a patch of soft green turf, looking at the faint imprint of tracks on the ground.

"What do you make of it?" asked Berian. "Demons?"

"No," the Pathfinder said slowly, thoughtfully. "It's something else. There are signs of our people in these woods. Elves."

"It's true!" came the murmur from the onlooking Alliance troops.

"Elves in the forest!"

"The orcs were telling the truth!"

Berian's sharp voice cut through the murmurs like a knife through butter. "_Nonsense_! There are no elves on Kalimdor, save those with the Alliance. Anyone who says otherwise will be punished with twenty lashes."

The elven General fixed his troops with an icy glare.

"We're only here to hunt demons, not engage in wild rumormongering. Keep your mind on your task. Now move out! Anyone who can't keep up will be left behind."

The column of Alliance troops resumed marching. Weapons drawn, they nervously eyed the dense woodland foliage they passed, looking for ambushes. They were right to be afraid, right to be wary.

Fighting against the Burning Legion had been perilous business -- casualties had been brutally high; most of the real soldiers were dead by now. After talking with the other footmen in Berian's army, Aramoor had learned that all of them were under the age of eighteen, and none of them had seen any combat before being sent into the Ashenvale forest.

Jaina was really scraping the bottom of the manpower barrel; there wasn't much hope there.

Berian constantly sent Bryony ahead of the main force to scout, for the Legion had attempted to ambush them many times. The Pathfinder was very good at her job; she blended in perfectly with the wilderness, and with the forewarning she provided every demonic attack was soundly defeated. Often, with the ranger's help, the Alliance troops were able to spring some ambushes of their own on the demons, to devastating effect.

It was while Bryony was on one of her scouting sojourns that Aramoor had a nasty confrontation with Berian.

**Chapter 41**

The column had made camp for the night in a grassy clearing.

It was good ground for a campsite. A small brook happily babbled by the clearing, and at one point it passed over a granite rock formation. The transition from high ground to low ground had created a picturesque waterfall, which emptied itself into a small pool of water before becoming the brook once more. Many of the Alliance soldiers plopped themselves down on the edge of the pool, taking off their boots and dabbling their toes in the cool water.

Fireflies glided gracefully over the clearing, competing with the stars to provide faint illumination. Here and there a bright campfire provided more substantial lighting. The mist rising from the waterfall was refreshing to breathe in; to be a part of, and the gentle tranquility was broken only by the sound of the flowing stream and an occasional whippoorwill.

The scene would have been perfectly idyllic, except that the temperature had dropped considerably. Ashenvale was a beautiful forest, but the nights were cold.

Aramoor took out Bryony's cloak, the green one with the black flecks on it that she had given him on Northrend, and wrapped it tightly around himself as he curled up near a campfire. He was just about to doze off to sleep when Berian's stern voice jarred him awake.

"Have you taken to looting our dead now, _human_? " the elven priest spat, looming over him out of the darkness. "Where did you get that cloak?"

Aramoor sat up, and matched the elf glare for glare. "It was a gift."

"Liar! A ranger's cloak is one of their most prized possessions. They are priceless treasures, forged with druidic magic and the hand of Nature. Such cloaks are _never_ given away, except perhaps to Heartfriends."

"What's a Heartfriend and why couldn't I be one?"

The priest's voice dripped with acid. "_Human_ Heartfriends are unheard of. It's a form of friendship that spans centuries; it's beyond anything you primitive savages can experience in your pitifully short lives. Give me the cloak or I will have you arrested."

"That's outrageous!" protested the footman. "Just ask--"

"I'm giving you to the count of three. One…two…"

Angrily, Aramoor thrust the cloak at Berian.

**Chapter 42**

When Bryony returned an hour later, Aramoor asked her about the cloak.

"Remember when you gave it to me on Northrend?"

"Yes."

"Does that mean we're Heartfriends?"

"Aw, hell," the ranger groaned. "Who told you about Heartfriends?"

"Berian."

"What else did he tell you?"

"Not much."

"Well, yes, technically we're Heartfriends," the Pathfinder admitted reluctantly. "You saved my life after all. But I'm sorry. I didn't even realize you still had the cloak. How about I get you a new one?"

"What?!" cried the footman, shocked. "Why? I like it! In fact, I'd like you to help me get it back. Berian confiscated it."

The elf looked at him sadly."It's probably better that he has it. Originally, it belonged to his girlfriend. To Kirielle."

Aramoor didn't understand.

"We were Heartfriends, Kirielle and I," Bryony said wistfully. "We traded cloaks to mark the friendship. I wonder if she still has my original Pathfinder's cloak…" The elf gave a weary sigh.

Aramoor hated to see Bryony like this.

"There's no need to be so depressed," he said supportively. "We're hitting the Legion hard, _real_ hard. Soon this war will be over. Things can only get better from here."

"No, they can only get worse," said the ranger sorrowfully.

"My way of life is dying. The undead do not create things, but destroy them…There will never be another Great Hunt in Quel'thalas. I'm one of the last Pathfinders. Perhaps _the_ last. And when I die, a part of my race will die with me. Generations of knowledge and skill will be lost forever."

Bryony's despair was almost palpable.

"Soon, I fear the ranger corps will exist only as part of the Undead Scourge. The dark rangers will have the rest of eternity to die in the Lich King's service, and when they are gone, there will be _nothing_ left, not even the merest shadow of who we were and what we stood for."

Aramoor wanted so much to make things better for the high elf, but he hardly knew what to say. How do you comfort someone who has lost _everything_?

That thought triggered something in the back of his mind. He had lost everything, once. He had been consumed with despair too. And Bryony had known what to say. What had she told him, the first time they had met?

He couldn't recall exactly, but it had been uplifting. If only he could remember…

"Aramoor," Bryony said suddenly. "Did Berian post any guards around our camp?"

"Yeah. There are sentries every fifty meters on our perimeter. Why?"

"I feel like we're being watched."

Abruptly, the calm of the forest was shattered. Shouts of alarm sounded in the Alliance camp. The unholy howls of ghouls filled the air, along with the sound of steel clashing on bone. They were under attack by the undead!

A blaze of hatred flowed through the footman as he recognized the insignia of the Scourge troops charging into the camp from the darkness.

Kirielle.

The dark ranger had followed them all the way to Kalimdor.

**Chapter 43**

"Stand and fight, men!" shouted Berian to his troops over the din of the ferocious melee. "Hold your ground!"

Hundreds of Scourge soldiers poured out of the night, while the Alliance troops, rubbing sleep from their eyes, desperately tried to throw up some kind of defense. Things looked bad though; they were outnumbered, and worse, the enemy forces were very well-trained.

Tight formations of skeletons, marching shoulder to shoulder, made mince-meat out of any who stood in their way. Farther back, behind the wall of bone the skeletons made, crypt fiends focused their fire on whatever groups of Alliance troops seemed to be putting up the most spirited resistance. Ghouls lurked on the fringes of the fray, and like wolves stalking their prey, they attacked lone targets and anyone who tried to flee into the forest.

The apparent leader of the undead was a necromancer with a vaguely serpent-like face. The black mage sat upon the shoulders of an abomination, and from this elevated position he exhorted his minions to greater efforts. "Blast them! Poison them! Slay them for our dark mistress! Let none survive!"

Aramoor's fellow footmen were being decimated. An Alliance sergeant shrieked as he was impaled by a skeleton's sword. One of the younger warriors, a boy named Jeran, turned to flee only to have his spine severed by a ghoul's razor-sharp claws.

Aramoor realized that the battle was lost unless decisive action was taken quickly.

Perhaps if he killed the necromancer leader, the tide of the battle could be turned in favor of the Alliance. He started towards the dark wizard, hacking apart any undead who stood in his way. Bryony realized what he was up to, and sent a hail of arrows to clear the way for him.

At last Aramoor reached the necromancer, but the mage's pet abomination was ready for him. The rotting undead creature launched a flurry of blows at the footman which he was hard pressed to fend off.

Bryony joined Aramoor, fighting back-to-back with him. While Aramoor traded blows with the abomination, the ranger's arrows ploughed through the many ghouls who sought to kill the footman from behind.

"You Alliance scum aren't so strong," the necromancer taunted from his perch high atop the abomination. "I've killed tougher children than you dogs."

"I don't see you killing much of anything," Aramoor retorted as he parried a savage blow from the abomination. "Why don't you come down from there and face me man to man? You can taste my steel, or Bryony's arrows, if you like."

"Is that your name, ranger? Bryony? A pretty name for a pretty girl. I'll have to add your head to my collection; it'll make a nice centerpiece for my kitchen table back in Northrend."

"_Fandu Nepilis_!" the Pathfinder snarled as she sent an arrow through the skull of a charging ghoul. "Shut up! I am no girl. I'd wager I'm several dozen times older than you, _boy_!"

One of the abomination's arms carried a rusty hook, and the undead thing was using it to try and snare Aramoor's sword. The creature got in a lucky hit, but before the footman's blade could be wrenched from his grasp, a bolt of magic came from behind and blew apart the abomination's decaying limb.

Berian had joined the fight.

"How dare you mongrels paint the symbol of House Lenaire of Quel'thalas on your battle standards!" the priest fumed indignantly.

"I know naught of elven Houses," the necromancer sneered. "The insignia is of our commander, Kirielle."

Berian flinched, as if he had been wounded.

"Kirielle! No!! I…I _loved_ her! _Kesis Aratara_! I'll cut out your heart, necromancer!"

The priest screamed a stream of expletives, each more foul than the last, and fought with great fury. But still the abomination would not go down.

Then Berian momentarily left the fight to retrieve something from a nearby tent -- the cloak he had taken from Aramoor. The priest hurled the green garment at the undead creature's face, and the abomination raised its three remaining arms to intercept, cutting the mass of cloth to shreds. Aramoor immediately took advantage of the distraction to strike low, carving up a meaty leg.

With only one leg left, the massive undead thing became unable to support its own weight, and it toppled sideways. With a shriek the necromancer leader leapt off his perch. Aramoor moved quickly, delivering a deathblow to the abomination before it could recover.

The black mage stared at the three Alliance heroes in shock.

"Protect me!" the wizard cried to his minions, and a platoon of skeletons hurried to comply.

Aramoor and Bryony tore into the undead, splintering countless bones into a fine powder. Meanwhile, Berian used his magic to dispel the unholy energies that bound the skeletons to Unlife. In seconds the fight was over.

The necromancer looked around desperately for more potential bodyguards, but there were none close by.

"Don't kill me!" he pleaded. "Do you know who I am? I'm Anchises, the chief consort of Kirielle! She's the greatest general of the Undead Scourge! Harm me, and you seal your own death! Kirielle will hunt you to the ends of the earth the avenge me!"

Berian's face flushed beet red. Livid with fury, the priest of the Light drove his wooden staff through the evil wizard's head.

"She loved _me_!" the elf screamed at the dead mage. "Kirielle would never care for a necromancer! She cared only for me!" Again and again, the priest slammed his staff into the black-robed corpse.

Aramoor didn't want to watch. Instead he turned his attention back to the battle.

Unfortunately, killing Anchises hadn't resulted in the desired effect; the undead were unfazed by the death of their necromancer leader. The Alliance soldiers were still being slaughtered.

"I think we should rally what troops we can and try to escape," Aramoor told Bryony, and the ranger nodded in agreement.

But suddenly, a flurry of arrows sailed into the clearing from the darkness of the forest. Only Scourge fighters were hit. Another volley of arrows followed the first, and the ranks of the undead were noticeably thinned.

Faced with the prospect of an invisible enemy, the remaining Scourge troops took flight.

"What the heck is going on?" Aramoor wanted to know. "Did we just get reinforcements?"

The survivors of Berian's army looked nervously into the dark woodlands. As if on cue, a figure stepped out of the shadows. She was an elf, but not like any elf the footman had ever seen before.

**Chapter 44**

The mysterious woman's skin was violet, and her eyes were a stunning crystal blue. She carried a bow, and wore an amulet the shape of a crescent moon. A leaf-like cloak flowed out behind her; it was hard to tell where the cloak ended and the night began.

The purple-skinned elf looked directly at Bryony and spoke.

"_Resis Dacaeli_! I see the High Borne dare to return to their ancient homeland. If you come to fight the walking dead, you are welcome here. But if you have not forsaken your decadent, magic-using ways, you had best return from whence you came."

Bryony was speechless. She stared at the violet skinned elf in wide-eyed wonder, her mouth hanging open.

Berian came to stand by the ranger's side. The priest's white robes were stained red with Anchises's blood, and he glared at the mysterious archer.

"Who, or what the hell are you?"

"I see your kind's arrogance remains intact after all these years. I am a Sentinel; with my sisters I guard Ashenvale from those who would defile it."

A dozen purple-skinned elven archers came out of the foliage and formed a ragged semicircle behind their leader.

Bryony had regained her composure. "There are more watching from the trees," the ranger whispered to Aramoor. "Hundreds of them. They blend into the night like…like they're part of it."

The Alliance troops started talking excitedly amongst themselves.

"These must be the warrior women the orcs fought!"

"They're real after all! You owe me twenty gold pieces, Kalbar."

"We've discovered a whole new race of elves! We'll go down in history!"

"_Are_ you a new race of elves?" Aramoor asked the Sentinel.

"Nay, we are an old race of elves. We call ourselves the Kaldorei -- the night elves."

"Impossible!" Berian sputtered. "Elfkind has only one form, a form of absolute purity, and you are not it!"

The bloodied priest turned to his army. "These are obviously freaks or mutations; high elves twisted by the plague of Unlife, or perhaps the Burning Legion's unholy powers."

The Sentinel leader's eyes narrowed when she heard this, and with a fluid motion the night elf surreptitiously nocked an arrow in her bow.

"Have you forgotten your own history, High Borne?" the Sentinel asked dangerously.

"We do not share a history with other races, or corrupted high elves," Berian sneered.

"So…you have forgotten. Or perhaps you do not wish to remember."

"Why don't you tell us this history," Aramoor broke in, in an effort to keep Berian from replying. Everything the bigoted priest was saying was inflaming an already tense situation.

"I'll gladly tell you, outlander. The story deserves to be told."

Glaring darkly at Berian, the night elf added, "It should never have been forgotten."

**Chapter 45**

"Once all of elvenkind lived together on Kalimdor under the great Queen Azshara. The Quel'dorei, or High Borne, were our Queen's most favored servants; the highest caste of our society, and they guarded the Well of Eternity -- a magic pool to which the fate of our world was linked. But Azshara's experiments with the magic of the Well led to her corruption by the Burning Legion -- the same Legion that you are fighting today, more than ten thousand years later. Azshara's High Borne servants, likewise addicted to magic, began to worship demons for power."

"Preposterous!" Berian blurted. "All lies! The very idea of high elves worshipping demons is ludicrous!"

The night elf ignored the priest and continued.

"The corrupted High Borne brought the Burning Legion to this world, but those who remained pure were able to drive the demons back. The Well of Eternity was destroyed, but a new one was formed that became the World Tree, Nordrassil, which we night elves protect to this day."

"That never happened!" protested Berian.

"The surviving High Borne, lacking a way to sate their addiction to magic, suffered from withdrawal. They became empty inside, and conspired to bring their unnatural magic into the world again by tapping into the energies of the World Tree. As punishment, our leaders banished the High Borne from Kalimdor forever."

"Is the Sentinel telling the truth?" Aramoor asked Bryony.

"I don't know," the Pathfinder admitted. "Much of my people's history has been lost over the years. Most of our Elders were killed in the Troll Wars, and many of our great libraries were razed as well. I've heard vague talk of these…night elves before, but I'd always thought it to be nothing more than legend."

"I watched you invade our forests," the Sentinel said. "My leader, Tyrande, gave me orders to kill any trespassers. But I saw you fight the demons, hunt them even! You gained my respect. When the undead attacked, I couldn't let you be overrun. So I had my archers intervene."

"Thank you for saving us," Bryony said earnestly.

"Watch your tongue, ranger!" Berian growled. "They saved us from nothing! We were doing fine without them!"

But the lie was obvious. The clearing was littered with the bodies of fallen Alliance soldiers. There were only half so many dead Scourge troops in sight.

"Your lack of gratitude is disappointing, High Borne, as is your lack of manners. I had hoped that, since we shared a common enemy--"

"Finish this!" barked Berian. "One way or the other. Do we fight, or do you run?"

Aramoor cringed. It was an incredibly stupid thing for the high elf priest to say. If Bryony was right, if there really were hundreds of purple-skinned archers watching from the forest, it would be easy for them to make pincushions out of what remained of Berian's army.

The Sentinel leader sighed. "I had always wondered if the High Borne had gained any wisdom in their ten thousand years of exile. Now I have my answer."

She walked back into the darkness of the forest, melting into the night. Her bodyguards followed.

Thus ended one of the first Alliance encounters with the night elves of Kalimdor.

**Chapter 46**

Meanwhile, Kirielle was having her own first encounter with the night elves.

In preparation for a general assault on the Sentinels of Ashenvale, the dark ranger had been ordered to destroy the night elf Starseeker tribe. She had been given a huge contingent of troops to complete the mission, but she did not intend for any of them to see combat.

Some things were better dealt with personally.

The Burning Legion had given her a very thorough briefing on what to expect from the night elves in general and the Starseekers in particular. A major concern was the status of the male night elf druids, who slumbered in the Emerald Dream. Already the female night elf Sentinels were taking steps to awaken their sleeping brethren, and the dark ranger knew she would have to act quickly before the power of her enemies was bolstered considerably.

Kirielle glided through the ancient Ashenvale forest in pantherlike silence. Darting from tree to tree, she was one with the night. Overhead a yellow orb dominated the starry sky; the moon shone brightly against the shimmering black quilt that covered the heavens.

The walled city of Trieste was designed to be impenetrable to intruders, but through thorough scouting the undead elf had discovered a weakness in the Starseeker defenses -- a shrine to the goddess Elune that was sparsely guarded. Perhaps the Sentinels thought sanctity would protect it.

The stealthy dark ranger climbed over two stone walls and bypassed a lone sentry with ease. She quickly traversed the holy grounds, exiting on the other side into the city proper.

A few more minutes of running though the shadows, and Kirielle stood in the center of Trieste, at the foot of a large wooden building with white walls and a purple roof. It was in dwellings like this that many of the night elves lived. The undead elf stepped inside.

There were few guards to avoid; the Starseekers didn't expect trespassers to get this far into their city undetected. Warily, Kirielle stalked through darkened hallways, looking for what she sought.

She passed by a small kitchen, and stopped to take in a deep breath of…some type of delicious-smelling spiced poultry, or whatever passed for poultry in this strange land.

At least her sense of smell was still intact; at least she could breath in the aroma of good food if not taste it.

Undeath had dulled many of her senses. She deeply regretted that her sense of taste had faded to the point of nonexistence. In life, the ranger's favorite food had been candied pecans, and a few months ago she had found some on a dead Alliance officer. With trembling hands she had put one of the sugary morsels in her mouth, partly as an act of rebellion against the Lich King, and partly in the desperate hope that something, anything of the delicious flavor she remembered from life would be picked up by her dead taste buds. But the pecan had tasted totally bland, and eating it had made her ill. Banshees did not need to eat and were not supposed to eat. It had taken a special cleansing spell to get rid of the food's mildly poisonous effect on her.

Kirielle's sense of touch had deteriorated as well; a cold numbness engulfed her body. She knew she could be impaled with a sword and feel very little pain at all.

The sixth sense she had gained as a ranger-- her sense of connection to the wilds, was totally gone. There was nothing left. Once she had been able create feelings of kinship and empathy in wild animals. Her link to the natural world had been strong enough to mold and rejuvenate plant life with but a mere touch. Now the animals ran from her, and plants withered on contact with her dead gray skin.

Undeath had changed the high elf into something different; it was almost as if she had evolved into a new species. In life she had been a perfect hunter, but she respected the cycle of Nature, never killing more than she needed. Now, in Unlife, her natural abilities directly disrupted the balance of the wilds. She had gained new senses to fit her new purpose in the world.

When close enough, she could feel the life force of others, and even hear the heartbeat of those who still drew breath. She could sense their emotions as well; the taste of their fear was delectable -- even better than what candied pecans had tasted like when she was alive.

She continued searching the building, often pausing at doorways to sense what lay behind them. Many night elves lived here; she'd already discovered and avoided a half-dozen guard barracks thanks to her life-sense.

At last, Kirielle found what she was looking for. A lone Sentinel stood guard before a massive, ornate door. Boldly the dark ranger stepped out of the shadows, a broad smile on her face, and greeted the night elf warmly.

"You know, you have the prettiest crystal blue eyes I've ever seen."

The Sentinel stared at Kirielle incredulously. "What the-? Who the-?"

The warrior reached for her glaive.

"What color eyes do _I_ have, night elf? Can you tell me?"

The guard glanced up, only briefly, but it was enough. Their gazes met. The Sentinel's pupils dilated, and her hand fell away from her weapon.

Kirielle continued talking, her voice syrupy sweet. "Why don't you open that door for me? We can show your leader what beautiful eyes you have."

The night elf tried to shake her head, but couldn't draw her gaze away from the dark ranger's. "N-n-no…have to guard her…"

Kirielle was getting annoyed. She brushed against the Sentinel's mind more forcefully, and felt the last of the woman's willpower dissipate.

"Now open that door!" the undead elf commanded firmly. The Sentinel took out a bronze key from a belt pouch and did as she was told.

Success! It was Kirielle's first use of Ner'zhul's gift, the charm spell, and it had worked just as it should have. Such powerful magic would come in handy for what she had planned.

**Chapter 47**

The dark ranger stepped through the open doorway into a series of sumptuously furnished suites. All of the moonwells of Trieste were linked, and somewhere in these rooms was the nerve center of the city's extensive aqueduct system. It was guarded night and day by the great hero and leader of the Starseeker tribe, Zerah Starseeker.

The Burning Legion had had much to say about this particular night elf hero.

Zerah was a so-called Priestess of the Moon, a spiritual and military leader of the Sentinel army which guarded Ashenvale's western territories. Unlike most Sentinel leaders, Zerah did not favor the bow, but preferred to cleave through her opponents with a massive enchanted halberd. The demons had spoken with grudging respect when they talked of Zerah's skill with this weapon, so Kirielle could only assume that the night elf was an exceptional warrior.

The Starseekers had prospered greatly during Zerah's ten thousand years of benevolent rule. Her people adored her; in fact they practically worshipped her.

Kirielle already hated the Sentinel leader, even though they had yet to meet. It was the stories of pampering that had really offended the dark ranger.

Such was the Starseekers' love for their leader that they insisted on catering to her every whim. Zerah did not dress herself, feed herself, wash herself, or even wipe her own bottom. All of this was done for her by a legion of willing servants. Doors were opened for the Priestess, writing was done by dictation, carpets were thrown down before her so that she need not tread on bare ground. The tales of exquisite decadence disgusted Kirielle.

The dark ranger cautiously explored the group of dimly lighted rooms, looking for her prey. She passed through a sitting room, a dining room, a trophy room, a bedroom, a small chapel to Elune, a library… How big was this place?

The undead elf sensed a heartbeat in the next room. Camouflaged in the shadows, she peered around the doorway.

It was an exercise room, and standing in the center of it was the largest elf Kirielle had ever seen, and that included both high and night elves. Was this another way the Starseekers had pampered their leader over the last 10,000 years? By fattening her up for the slaughter?

Then Kirielle noticed the night elf possessed little actual fat. Zerah practically _rippled_ with muscles! Perhaps she had spent the past 10,000 years exercising...

Not for the first time, the dark ranger was glad her plan called for very little open violence. She always preferred to use wits over brawn, and she would not want to find herself in battle with that muscle-bound…_thing_.

The Sentinel leader wielded her great halberd, and with obvious experience and expertise she cycled through various combat stances. For a moment Kirielle feared she had been detected, but then she realized the night elf was merely practicing.

The dark ranger had seen these types before -- these larger than life heroes. This Priestess of the Moon was like a ripe plum waiting to be plucked…Zerah didn't know it, but she had waited her whole life to be fodder, had in fact been groomed for it from birth…

The Starseekers had set their leader up on a pedestal so high she could not help but fall.

If Kirielle had her way, the pampered Priestess would fall tonight, and take her people with her.

**Chapter 48**

Kirielle's plan was simple. Ner'zhul's plague may have ravaged Lordaeron, but it hadn't been seen yet on Kalimdor. The night elves had no experience with it, and wouldn't know what to look for.

There was a slight problem in that the plague was carried through infected grain, and the night elf diet was not exactly grain-heavy. They were hunters; their sustenance consisted mostly of meat and water from moonwells.

But, any edible substance that contained grain as an ingredient could be plagued, and grain could be used to make a lot of things. Bread for example, or certain types of alcoholic beverages. Use plagued grain to make, say, liquor, and you got plagued liquor. Or, the grain stage could be skipped entirely. Unplagued liquor could be converted to plagued liquor with a simple magic spell. "Water of Unlife" was what Kirielle called her liquid version of the plague. If she could contaminate the city's main aqueduct…

But first Zerah had to be dealt with. Unfortunately, strong-willed individuals could resist Kirielle's charm spell -- heroes like the Priestess of the Moon. There was also the small problem of altars. Even if Kirielle managed to kill Zerah, the Priestess would be resurrected within a few minutes at an Altar of Elders, and the night elf would be certain to sound the alarm upon revival.

If only the dark ranger had a runeblade, she could complete a ritual to steal Zerah's soul beyond the hope of resurrection. Unfortunately, the Lich King had not seen fit to provide her with such a weapon. This was going to be tricky…

Kirielle retreated outside the Sentinel leader's sanctum and held a quick conference with her newfound lackey, the guard whose mind she had taken with the charm spell.

The dark ranger learned that in three hours the Priestess was due to preside over an important religious ceremony. Tonight was the night of a full moon, and the Starseekers sought to honor their goddess Elune with songs and worship. If Zerah was at the ceremony, away from her post, perhaps Kirielle could sneak into the Priestess's rooms and poison the aqueducts…

But the ranger's charmed minion dismissed that idea. "When Zerah is gone, a hundred of her most elite soldiers guard the aqueducts in her stead."

Damn.

Kirielle heard footsteps coming from around the corner, and sensed a life-force drawing near. The dark ranger rushed to hide in the shadows, but it was too late. A Sentinel carrying a large silver platter had spotted her. The night elf opened her mouth, to shout for help? To raise the alarm?

Desperately Kirielle lashed out with her charm spell. The Sentinel's mouth closed and her eyes became dilated.

That had been close.

The silver platter was heaped with food. Some of it seemed to be the spiced poultry the dark ranger had smelled earlier.

"What's the platter for?" Kirielle asked her latest lackey.

"It's Zerah's dinner. Her first course."

Hmmm…

The plague didn't work on heroes…simple poison probably wouldn't either. But maybe…

"Do you night elves have beer? Liquor? Anything like that?"

"We have liquor. It's a mix of moonwell water and--"

"Is it strong? Strong enough to get Zerah drunk?"

"Well, yes, but Zerah doesn't drink."

"Then tonight's her night to start."

**Chapter 49**

Zerah could have sworn she had seen some type of undead elf spying on her from the shadows while she practiced in her exercise room, but a quick search of her chambers had yielded nothing. She had considered alerting her guards, but decided against it.

After all, nobody could get far into her city without the alarm being raised. Trieste was walled, and her sentries were not lax in their duties. The Priestess prided herself on the professionalism of her soldiers; she had helped train many of them herself.

It was foolish to fear ghosts in the shadows. Was she not the Kaldorei hero who had single-handedly defeated the black dragon Verasmiss, and assassinated the Great Khan of the centaurs? She feared nothing. Especially not here, in her inner sanctum, in a building full of trusted bodyguards who would give their lives for her.

"The elf must have been a figment of my imagination. Maybe Tyrande's recent paranoid rantings have gotten to me."

Her superior was convinced that the Burning Legion had returned to Kalimdor, but Zerah had her doubts.

There certainly was some kind of organized invasion of Ashenvale taking place, with demons and undead allied together, but she was not worried. If it was the Legion, how come they were being defeated so easily?

Four times there had been incursions into Starseeker lands, and four times the invaders had been driven back in fear and ruin. Just today a band of undead had crossed into Starseeker territory, and her tribe had killed every last one of them. She had personally struck the deathblow against their lich leader.

Let Tyrande talk of awaking the druids; Zerah was confident her Sentinels could handle any threat to Ashenvale with ease. By the time the males came out of their slumber, the invaders would be decimated, and the Starseekers would be the heroes of the day.

The Sentinel leader's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of one of her servants.

"Priestess? Your dinner is ready."

A minute later she was in her dining room. Her servant would feed her, all she needed to do was open her mouth, chew, and swallow. It was good to be the boss.

But the food and drink tasted different than usual. Sort of tangy and sweet. She asked her servant about it.

"It's a really popular new trend in cooking. We use a special sauce--"

"Well can you take this back and get me a regular dinner? One that hasn't been drenched in this special sauce?"

"Of course, Priestess. I'm sorry, I thought you'd like it. I'll be back in about an hour with--"

"An _hour_?!"

"Well, all the food in the kitchen has this sauce in it. We'll have to make you a new dinner from scratch."

Zerah groaned. "I guess this'll be fine for tonight. But next time consult me before you change my menu."

The Sentinel leader set back to work on her food, finishing the first course and starting on the second. She had always been a hearty eater, but now she was feeling a little light-headed.

It was probably from the tangy sauce; it seemed to have a hint of liquor in it. Well, not liquor exactly, but something like liquor. She avoided alcohol because it dulled her senses, and she always liked to be alert. She took her job guarding the city's aqueducts very seriously.

When she finished her second course she was quite surprised to see her servant return with a third one. Usually there were only two courses, and then maybe dessert.

She waved the new food away. "Take it back. I'm full."

"But you're still hungry Priestess. Aren't you?"

Suddenly something seemed to brush against Zerah's mind, almost as if another was trying to make psychic contact with her. From the shadows across the dining hall she almost thought she saw the undead elf again, but that was impossible. She was angry with herself. That damned special sauce was making her hallucinate! She'd have to give a very stern lecture to the chefs tomorrow…

Zerah was halfway through the third course when she realized what she was doing. She had told her servant to take the third course back! She had said that she was full! That lousy sauce had clouded her mind with cobwebs. She was about to admonish her servant when again she felt something brush against her mind. She couldn't fend it off as easily this time; her thoughts were too hazy. Again she thought she saw the undead elf, but the apparition disappeared only seconds after it materialized.

She looked at her servant to tell her…something…but she couldn't remember.

It must have been about the undead elf.

"Get the guard from outside. Tell her to search my rooms for an intruder."

The servant returned shortly with the guard who completed a quick search.

"There's nothing Priestess. No sign of an intruder. Should I look again?"

"No…I'm just…feeling a little…paranoid right now. Tyande's talk of the Burning Legion has me a little nervous. I guess it's nothing."

The guard nodded and left. Odd. Usually they asked for her permission to leave.

She finished her meal. Her dinner servant loomed before her.

"Your second course is ready, Priestess."

Hadn't she already had her second course? She thought she had. She certainly was satiated…

Zerah's vision had gotten a little blurry. Her head swam when she looked at the servant. Better to look at the food. That was clear.

"Eat," her servant urged. That sounded reasonable. She could do that. When the food was gone the servant returned with large pitchers of moonwell water. It tasted a lot like the tangy sauce.

There was a heavy fog over her thoughts. Her senses felt dulled. Her stomach was strangely numb. She became lethargic. She existed only to gorge herself on the sweet nectar of Elune.

She drank and drank and drank. She no longer felt satiated, or much of anything. Her vision was totally out of focus. She was detached from the world. Staring straight ahead with glazed eyes, she became a drinking machine. Her servant poured pitcher after pitcher of tangy water into her open mouth.

Suddenly the feeling of vague pressure that had been building up in her gut dissipated. Somewhere in the back part of her mind that was still coherent, a voice was screaming that her engorged stomach had just ruptured, that irreparable harm was being done. But the voice was too faint to be heard.

There was no pain, but now the numbness of her stomach expanded as the fluid within it leaked out to soak her internal organs. She felt the moonwell water strongly, abnormally sloshing back and forth in her gut, almost as if it had a will of its own.

Finally a loud _snap_ startled her out of the trance. She looked down to see her belt had broken; her belly had become greatly swollen from all that she had consumed.

The haze started to lift from her mind. This wasn't right. She should _never_ have taken in so much! Something was very wrong here. She pushed herself away from the table and tried to stand up when her servant punched her.

Zerah couldn't believe it! No one dared punch her! She drew her fist back to retaliate when someone grabbed it from behind. The servant grabbed her other arm.

The muscular Priestess struggled, but it was in vain. Whatever she had been tricked into eating had sapped her strength as well as her will. She found herself being drag-carried to her bathroom bathing pool. Her assailants threw her in, and held her under the water. She was drowning!

Zerah redoubled her efforts to fight back, and caught a glimpse of her second assailant. It was the undead elf! The nightmare was real!

The Priestess choked on the pool's water-- it tasted like her dinner had tasted. Tangy. Blackness was closing in on her…she was dying, and for the first time in 10,000 years she knew fear.

**Chapter 50**  
Kirielle was overwhelmed with the ecstasy of killing what surely must be the pinnacle of night elf civilization. Zerah's terror was so exquisitely delicious!

The dark ranger's plan had been sound. Individually, charm spells and the plague wouldn't be enough to defeat the night elf hero. But together…

Normally heroes such as the Priestess of the Moon were too strong-willed to be affected by a charm spell in any way. But the plagued food and drink had leeched at her willpower; it wasn't what it should have been. The charm spell still wasn't totally effective, it merely made the Priestess susceptible to suggestions for a short time. And of course Kirielle's suggestion was always to consume more plagued edibles, which had sapped Zerah's will even further. Kirielle had cast her charm spell as often as possible to keep the susceptibility to suggestion going. Consume and charm, consume and charm the cycle had gone, until, amazingly, the Priestess had been able to snap out of it. But by then it had been too late for her. It had been a brilliant plan. But the last part was the most important one.

The dark ranger felt Zerah's heart slow, then sputter, then die. She sensed the night elf's spirit stirring within the submerged corpse. The Priestess would attempt to head to an Altar of Elders for resurrection.

The problem was, the bathing pool the night elf had drowned in was filled with Water of Unlife. Her spirit couldn't pass through the foul taint of the plagued liquid. Kirielle could feel the growing desperation of the Sentinel as she looked for a means of escape.

The Priestess's spirit was trapped in her body, and her body's insides were saturated with Water of Unlife as well. Every second she couldn't escape her spirit became more soiled and dirty from the plague. Invisible chains wrapped themselves around Zerah's essence, pulling tighter and restricting her movement. Soon she was totally bound. Trapped between Life and Death, Zerah became one of the undead.

It was certainly an innovative way to make up for not owning a runeblade.

With a large splash, the massive night elf erupted from the foul pool. Dripping wet, the Sentinel looked from her bloated belly to the dark ranger.

"_Rrraaaagggghhhh_!!"

The warrior was angry at her fate. Kirielle didn't give a damn.

"Welcome to the Undead Scourge, you stupid sap. I'm Kirielle, I'll be your commanding officer."

Zerah glared at her new master. "If you had challenged me to a fair fight I would have beaten you."

"Probably. But I don't care much for fair fights."

The dark ranger had a long list of things to do. First she cast a preservation spell on the former Priestess of the Moon to keep her corpse from decaying.

Next they needed to secure the building they were in. Kirielle had Zerah summon each of her bodyguards, one-by-one, to a private chat in her chambers. The dark ranger cast her charm spell a lot.

Once that was done, the two undead elves stopped at Trieste's central aqueduct, the one that was linked to all the city's moonwells. On orders from Kirielle, Zerah took off her sandals and waded into the water. The night elf was stilled filled with Water of Unlife; she had become a plague-bearer that emanated disease. Plagued liquid flowed through her veins now instead of blood. Her mere presence polluted the moonwell waters, corrupting them into more Water of Unlife. Within a few hours every moonwell in the city would be affected.

Their next stop was Zerah's treasure vault. With a magical syllable the undead Priestess threw open the door of the fortified chamber, and Kirielle took her pick of 10,000 years worth of Starseeker war spoils.

"A pendant of mana! I always wanted one of these. And what have we here…A ring of protection. I think I'll leave that for you, Zerah. Hmmm…what's this thing do?"

The undead warrior sighed wearily. "It's a staff of silence. It'll help you prevent enemies from casting spells."

"Eh, I can already do that. Now what's in this cloth bundle…"

The undead high elf unwrapped it and a short, glowing dagger fell out.

"A runeblade!" the dark ranger gasped. "Where did you get this?"

"I killed a lich this morning. He had it."

Kirielle thought for a moment about which Scourge commanders were supposed to be in the area.

"Did the lich's troops wear an insignia that looked like an orange skull with an arrow through it?"

"Yes."

"Hot damn! You killed Venim Iceblade! I really hated that guy. He wasn't linked to an Altar of Darkness was he?"

"I don't think so. He had no base."

"Great! This has been one of the best days of my Unlife."

After the dark ranger was finished looting, she had Zerah direct her to what passed for the city's cemetery. For the past ten millennia the Starseekers had buried their dead in a system of underground caverns that ran beneath Trieste. The only way down to the caverns was through a portalin the Sentinel leader's headquarters.

The undead Priestess spoke the command word that opened the portal**--** but didn't step through. Instead she looked with dismay at the rocky cave ground before her.

"What's the matter?" Kirielle asked. "Traps? Guardians?"

"There are many traps and many guardians, but they won't harm us. I placed most of them there myself."

"Then what is it?"

"I left my sandals by the aqueducts."

"So?"

The Sentinel shrugged helplessly. "I'm barefoot. There's no carpet for me to walk on."

"Think you I care?" snarled dark ranger. "Your days of being pampered are over with!"

She pushed the night elf through the portal.

"Now give me a tour of this place."

The burial grounds were quite extensive. Even better, the Starseekers often preserved their dead through mummification or magic. There were a lot of corpses to be raised, but that was for another time. There was one last thing to do to ensure victory over the city of Trieste.

"Zerah. I believe you have a ceremony in honor of Elune to preside over in a few minutes."

**Chapter 51**

The city coliseum was packed with Starseeker elves. Most of the city's population was crowded there to honor the goddess Elune and see their beloved Priestess of the Moon.

Exuberant cheers broke out when Zerah stepped onto the center stage. The cheers died down somewhat when the Sentinels noticed the night elf's swollen belly. They were definitely curious about that.

So the spiritual leader provided them with an explanation.

"I have wonderful news," the Priestess proclaimed, her voice booming across the stadium. "We are gathered here to celebrate to coming of a full moon, as is our custom. But there is another cause for celebration as well. For my faith and devotion, Elune has seen to bless me in one of the greatest ways possible. I am pregnant."

The cheering started up again. From the shadows, Kirielle watched it all. She was a little bit surprised to see that the Sentinels had swallowed the lie so easily. But then, looking at the adoration on their faces, she had to wonder…If Zerah told them the sky was green, would they believe her? The Legion hadn't been wrong when they had said the Starseekers nearly placed their leader on the same level as their goddess.

And in a way, the Priestess was pregnant. Not with child, but with disease.

Zerah proposed a toast, "In honor of Elune's gift of life."

Her bodyguards moved through the crowds, handing out mugs brimming with Water of Unlife.

"Let us drink sisters, of the pure nectar of our goddess. Glory to her always! Glory to the Starseekers! Glory to Trieste!"

There was much applause and approbation. The night elf really knew how to move a crowd. She led her subjects in songs of praise, and in ways of worship. It was typical religious dogma, but the Priestess had a knack for keeping it interesting. Often she proposed toasts to Elune, and her bodyguards made sure every Sentinel's mug was filled.

Kirielle didn't really pay attention to the spiritual rhetoric she heard. Most matters of organized religion didn't interest her any more. There was no more room in her heart for the Holy Light -- not after all that had happened and everything she had done.

The Painstone had done its work; it no longer glowed. She worshipped only Ner'zhul now.

Her dreadlord watcher had also played a pivotal role in her religious rebirth. Zenedar may have been a lousy general, but he was a first-rate torturer. Dreadlords were practically overqualified when it came to administering pain, and Zenedar was no exception. The combination of the Painstone and the demon's tender mercies would have been too much for anyone. There was never any doubt about the outcome, only how long it would take. By the time Kirielle's invasion fleet had reached Kalimdor, something had snapped within the dark ranger.

She knew that she was insane and it was good.

The ceremony continued, but the liveliness of the crowd had diminished somewhat. The cheers became fewer in number and less enthusiastic. A feeling of subdued lethargy settled over the coliseum, as if the life was being sapped out of the audience. Which of course was exactly what was happening.

Those infected with the plague gained a greenish or purplish tint to their skin; luckily, Kirielle could predetermine what color her Water of Unlife would turn its victims.

The night elves in the audience would be showing a purplish tinge to their skins by now, but their skin was already purple. There was nothing to see.

Zerah was wrapping things up. The conclusion of the ceremony was supposed to happen exactly when the full moon was at its zenith, and it was just about that time.

The Starseeker leader addressed her subjects. "For ten thousand years we have defended western Ashenvale with skill and valor, but tonight we embark on a new path. We have a new mission, a new purpose! We shall go forth and strike down our enemies. The moment of destiny is at hand."

The moon reached its zenith. At this point the Priestess of the Moon was supposed to say, "_Let the shining light of Elune show us the way_!"

That would end the ceremony.

Instead Zerah proclaimed dramatically, "_Let the everlasting darkness of Ner'zhul show us the way_!"

There were a few gasps of shock and outrage from audience members, from Sentinels who hadn't taken part in many of Zerah's toasts involving Water of Unlife. As soon as these elves revealed themselves, the Priestess's bodyguards cut them down. But most of the spectators stared blankly ahead, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. Within a few minutes they'd all be dead, only to rise again as undead.

The stillness of death descended over Trieste, and a thick miasma of plague wafted from the city's corrupted moonwells. The 10,000 year old Starseeker tribe had been decimated. It had been only four hours since Kirielle had first set foot in the night elf fortress-city. Decisive.

The dark ranger's army moved in, past unguarded gates and walls.

The coliseum became a giant charnel house, and black-robed mages swarmed over the scene, molding Unlife with their dark magics and casting corpse-preservation spells.

Kirielle wanted to maintain the illusion that all was well within Trieste for as long as possible. She wanted the night elf leaders of Ashenvale to make military decisions based on the illusion that their western flank was secure, while in reality she had just blown a gaping hole through it.

In the coliseum, not a step could be taken without treading on a dead Sentinel.

"You didn't have to kill them all," Zerah remarked bitterly to Kirielle.

Looking at the layer of twitching dead flesh that covered the coliseum grounds, the dark ranger shrugged. "Well, you wanted a carpet to walk upon…"

**Chapter 52**

A week later, Kirielle had a million new troops, all of them former Starseekers. Most of them were only skeletons, conscripted from the tombs of ten thousand years, but still…a _million_, and every last one of them a ruthless killer. With a force such as this, she could take on the Burning Legion itself!

But the news wasn't all good.

Zenedar had taken advantage of the dark ranger's excursion to Trieste to commandeer some of her soldiers. Apparently the dreadlord was not content to be merely her watcher anymore; he wanted a piece of the military glory for himself.

The demon had launched an ill-conceived attack on an Alliance force, and now Anchises, one of her most valuable allies, was dead. The undead elf didn't mourn the passing of her necromancer "boyfriend," that charade had been merely a ploy to keep him loyal. He had been a tool and nothing more. But still, a valuable tool, and the loss grated on her. Zenedar would pay.

The one bit of consolation she had from the whole fiasco was the sighting of Bryony with the Alliance force the dreadlord had attacked. The demon had recognized the living ranger as the one who had single-handedly killed two hundred of his crypt fiends on Northrend.

A tattered piece of green cloth had been retrieved from the scene of the battle. It had been part of a Pathfinder's cloak. The same cloak, Kirielle was certain, that she had given to Bryony so long ago to mark their friendship.

The undead elf had never expected to encounter her old friend here on Kalimdor. Bryony was a ranger, and sworn to protect the Sunwell -- Kirielle had assumed her Heartfriend had died when the Scourge overran Quel'thalas.

But still, the ranger's corpse had never been found, much to the chagrin of the Lich King. She was the one Pathfinder currently unaccounted for; the only one who had yet to find new life as a dark ranger. If Bryony truly was alive, and here, on Kalimdor, it was a great stroke of luck.

Kirielle wanted to see her old friend so much. Somehow, she was certain the living ranger was the key to her salvation from the damnation of Unlife.

**Chaper 53**

Aramoor hated their situation.

There was no denying it, the Scourge was winning the war. First on Northrend, then on Lordaeron, now on Kalimdor too. Every battle was just a desperate holding action against a terrifying army of the damned that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

Jaina's troops used to fear the demons of the Burning Legion, but now, they gladly waded into battle with them; _anything_ was better than fighting the undead.

In the past few weeks, Kirielle had cut a swath of destruction across northern Ashenvale. The brilliant undead strategist handily won all her battles. Now many of Jaina's soldiers would flee at the mere sight of anything that wore the dark ranger's insignia. Out of all the Scourge generals, Kirielle was the one they most hated and feared.

The only good news was that Jaina had made some kind of alliance with the mysterious night elves. They needed all they help they could get. Not that it would be enough. Not that anything could be enough to save them.

They needed a miracle, what they had was...idiot officers.

After Berian's tense first encounter with the night elf Sentinels, some of his troops had complained to Jaina. They said the high elf General didn't care enough about the welfare of his men, and was guilty of favoritism towards the other high elves under his command.

Aramoor didn't agree with that last part. Berian hadn't shown any favoritism to Bryony that the footman could see; the priest constantly sent the ranger out on the most dangerous missions, often alone and without the possibility of rescue if things went wrong. To top it all off, the Pathfinder never received a word of thanks from the priest for all she did. Aramoor thought the ranger was a saint for putting up with it; the dutiful elf never complained.

Aramoor hoped that Jaina would have Berian relieved of command, so that Bryony could have some rest. But instead the human sorceress sent an emissary to observe the elven priest's performance as a General. It was Baron Kirkendale.

"Thank you again for saving Princess Calia's baby from the Scourge," the noble told Aramoor when they met again. "Little Alvar is getting on just splendidly with me."

"You adopted him?"

"Of course. I always wanted a son, and Calia knew that. If you ever need a favor from me, anything at all, all you have to do is ask."

"Can you get Berian relieved of command?"

Kirkendale laughed. "I have to be fair. When I make my report back to Jaina I'll be honest. That's why she sent me, she knows I'll tell the truth. If Berian is relieved of command, it'll have to be through his own faults, not because I'm honoring a favor to you. After all, it would be uncouth of me to persecute an innocent elf. I'll grant you any favor _within reason_."

"Well, that's fine. I expect pretty soon you'll be well-acquainted with Berian's faults. In fact I'm pretty sure he already hates you."

"Really?"

"Berian hates anyone who's not a high elf, and he's often unkind to his own people as well."

"Tell me about it."

So Aramoor did. He spent hours talking about Berian's bigotry. Then he started talking about how unfairly even Bryony was treated.

When Kirkendale learned that Bryony was the one who had been Alvar's wet nurse, he insisted on meeting the ranger.

The Pathfinder had just come back from a twelve hour scouting mission. She was dirty and tired and had no idea who Kirkendale was.

"It is an honor to meet you, milady," the Baron said as he bowed and kissed the bewildered elf's hand.

"This is the man that Princess Calia wanted us to take Alvar to," Aramoor explained, and the light of recognition dawned in the ranger's eyes.

The noble thanked her for taking care of Calia's child.

"Ah, well, it was nothing," the Pathfinder replied awkwardly.

"I owe you a great debt. If you ever need anything, just come to me. "

Bryony said she would.

**Chapter 54**

The final battle was at hand. A runner from Jaina had arrived, and he briefed Berian's assembled staff.

"All right. Here's the situation. The enemy is advancing on the World Tree in a three-pronged attack. Their main force, under the demon lord Archimond, will be coming up from the south, and most of our troops will try and head them off. But there are two alternate routes to the World Tree, sort of like back door entrances. They're more defensible than the southern route, but the Legion has sent two armies to attack them anyway. All they need is to get one army through to the World Tree and they win -- they'll corrupt the Tree and we'll all die, and the world will die with us."

The runner started marking on a map of Ashenvale, showing allied and enemy positions.

"A large army of demons under the pit lord Azgalor is moving to strike from the west. A large army of undead under the dark ranger Kirielle is coming from the north. It'll be your job to stop Kirielle."

"Who's defending against the pit lord?" someone asked.

"There's this tribe of night elves called the Starseekers. They'll stop the pit lord's army."

"Are these…Starseekers reliable?"

"Yeah. They've been defending western Ashenvale for 10,000 years. Their leader, Zerah Starseeker, is something of a living legend, sort of like the night elf equivalent of Uther Lightbringer."

"Any idea of the numbers we're going up against?"

"No, but it looks bad. They're gonna hit you hard, but you _must_ stand your ground! Jaina has given the order. There will be no retreating."

**Chapter 55**

Berian's army consisted of 5,000 Alliance soldiers.

At Bryony's urging, the elven priest set up defenses around a large, muddy river that ran from east to west. The water would provide a natural barrier against any attacker. Breastworks were thrown up on the Alliance side of the river, while the other side was littered with goblin land mines.

The only easy way to cross the river was via a wooden bridge that had been constructed by the night elves decades ago. Alliance soldiers placed several barrels of volatile explosives on the bridge. If the undead tried to cross it, they'd be in for a nasty surprise.

A lone scout tower was constructed on the north side of the river to provide advance warning of the Scourge's approach. Naturally, Berian assigned Bryony to the dangerous task of manning the exposed tower.

Aramoor knew that this battle was going to be bad. Today might be his last time to tell Bryony how he really felt about her. With no small amount of anxiety, he approached the scout tower.

The ranger greeted him warmly. "Have you come to keep me company? It was getting pretty boring just sitting here. The Scourge probably won't arrive for another hour or so."

He couldn't think of any small talk to make. He decided to get it over with.

"This battle looks like it's going to be rough. They're sending everything they have at us."

"Yeah."

Aramoor swallowed. "Just…just in case…I mean…what want to say is…I want you to know that I…"

"Ghouls!" the Pathfinder exclaimed.

"What?"

She pointed. "See them? On the horizon. They're coming straight for us."

"We should get back to the other side of the river!" Aramoor said in alarm "We're not safe here!"

"No, wait. The ghouls will probably be scouts. We should wait for the main force. Berian will want to know how many there are."

"Forget Berian! Let's go!"

"I'm staying," the stubborn elf said firmly.

Looking out the tower window, Aramoor saw a scene from his worst nightmares.

The main force had arrived.

Kirielle's army was upon them and it had no end. They turned the land black from their numbers; they were an endless mass of pure evil flowing across the earth. Undead of every size and description advanced on the puny Alliance force.

Bryony started counting the damned. 1,000. 2,000. 5,000. 18,000. 40,000. 90,000. 150,000. 220,000. 300,000.

After that it became a pointless exercise. Most of the undead seemed to be skeletons, but there were just too many. Way too many. It was impossible to tell where one skeleton ended and the next began.

"OK, let's get the hell out of here," the Pathfinder said at last.

The two Alliance soldiers dashed back to the bridge that connected to the south side of the river. Behind them, Kirielle's ghouls tore the scout tower apart.

**Chapter 56**

The massive Scourge force assembled on the north side of the river, but they didn't attempt to cross. Why weren't they attacking?

A necromancer carrying a white flag came to the wooden bridge, and Aramoor was shocked to see that they wanted to parley. In all the time he had fought against the Scourge, they had never attempted to parley. Their stated goal was the destruction of humanity after all. That would be a real sticking point in any negotiations.

Berian, Aramoor, and Kirkendale went out to meet the black mage on the bridge.

"Give us the ranger," the necromancer said peremptorily. "Give her to us, and we'll let you live."

There was only one ranger in Berian's army.

"What do you want with Bryony?" asked Aramoor.

"That's for the mistress to decide."

Berian spoke. "If we give her to you, you'll leave?"

"No," the Scourge wizard replied. "But if you give her to us and flee, we promise we won't hunt you down and kill you."

"No deal!" Aramoor said firmly.

"You can't win this," the necromancer said smugly. "We have more than a million troops."

Berian's face noticeably paled.

"Get the hell off our bridge!" Kirkendale growled. It was the first time Aramoor had ever seen the demure nobleman angry.

The black mage smiled wickedly. "You've just made the biggest, and last, mistake of your lives. See ya."

The parley was over.

**Chapter 57**

They had only a few minutes before the battle would begin. Berian did something very odd by calling for a gathering of all the high elves in the army. Non-high elves were ordered to man their positions and await further orders.

Aramoor set off to try and spy on Berian's meeting, but Kirkendale grabbed his arm.

"Hold on, my boy. Want to see something interesting?"

The nobleman muttering something under his breath and a crystal sphere shimmered into existence in the palm of his hand.

"You're a mage?!"

"Of course. The Alliance didn't hire me for my charming personality, you know. We can watch the meeting with this crystal ball."

Sure enough, an image appeared on the surface of the opaque orb. Berian was addressing the 500 high elves of his army.

"It's time to get out of the line of fire," the elven General was saying. "The Scourge outnumbers this army by more than 200 to 1. We'll leave the humans and dwarves behind; they should give us enough time to cover our escape."

"You're going to abandon your own army?" Bryony asked incredulously.

"Bah! They're only humans and dwarves. Their sole purpose in existence is to die in battles such as this."

"But we can't let the Scourge reach the World Tree!" a sorceress protested. "If we do, the entire planet will be destroyed, right?"

"I don't think so," Berian replied. "We'll just have to take our chances in any case. Let me make one thing absolutely clear. Unless Jaina has some kind of brilliant fallback plan that can stop more than a _million_ Scourge troops, the Burning Legion has already won this war. It's time to shape our future around that reality. Anyone who doesn't come with me now is going to die."

The image in the crystal ball faded.

"I can only use it to spy on an area for a few seconds," Kirkendale explained.

"Thankfully, what I've just seen is enough to condemn Berian completely."

**Chapter 58**

A minute later, a commotion started on the edge of the high elf gathering. A squad of dwarven riflemen led by Kirkendale and Aramoor pushed through the elves until they reached Berian at the center.

"What's the meaning of this!" Berian demanded. "Why aren't you men at your posts?"

Kirkendale spoke. "General Berian, by the authority vested in me by Jaina Proudmoore and the Alliance, I hereby relieve you of command. The rest of you elves, get back to the breastworks. Berian, get out of my sight."

The elven priest's face flushed with rage. "You've just made a terrible mistake! When I tell Jaina what you've done--"

Aramoor interrupted the priest. "Kirkendale had a crystal ball. He heard everything you said."

Berian was taken aback. "That foppish idiot is a mage? I had no idea that--"

The priest's voice was drowned out by the sound of a horn blaring from the river.

"They're coming! The undead are advancing!"

As the high elves rushed to rejoin the humans and dwarves on the riverfront, Berian set off in the opposite direction, away from what would surely be a terrible, one-sided struggle.

**Chapter 59**

The battle began. Meat wagons from the Scourge side of the river started bombarding the Alliance fortifications. Flights of gargoyles made harassment attacks from the sides and rear. The undead were avoiding the booby-trapped bridge for now. Instead they were using zeppelin-like sky barges to transport strike teams across the river. Casualties started to mount. The Alliance army was getting torn up, but Aramoor was amazed that they were holding at all.

For some reason Kirielle wasn't using her whole force against them, or even a fraction of her whole force. They were only fighting a few thousand Scourge troops, and those troops were only engaging in hit-and-run attacks. With the numbers the dark ranger had, she could rush the tiny Alliance army and easily overwhelm them, probably suffering few casualties of her own in the process. But instead the undead elf was meticulously picking away at their defenses. She was toying with them, and Aramoor couldn't understand why.

Then he had his answer. Bryony. The ranger dashed back and forth across the Alliance lines, moving to stop Scourge incursions as they appeared. But every time the undead saw the Pathfinder coming, they would withdraw back to their side of the river. When the ranger left, Kirielle's troops would resume the attack.

Apparently the Scourge commander didn't want Bryony getting hurt in the fighting. Aramoor remembered that, on Northrend, right before the decimation of Cernick's army, Bryony had taken a lone stand against 2,000 necromancer servants of the dark ranger. Later the living high elf had claimed she had been able to survive that certain-death situation because, "Kirielle let me escape." Did Kirielle mean to let Bryony escape now as well?

The cohesiveness of the Alliance army started to break up. Small groups of soldiers tried to flee, though most never made it more than a few hundred meters before they were cut down. A handful of desperate high elves even attempted to surrender, though surely they must have known that prisoners of war didn't last long in Scourge custody. By now, the undead had completely encircled their tiny force. Only two major pockets of resistance remained, and they had failed to inflict any significant damage on Kirielle's endless horde of the damned. It was hopeless.

One pocket of resistance was led by Aramoor and Kirkendale on a small hill, the other pocket was led by Bryony at the bridge.

"Night elves!" one of the riflemen in Aramoor's group suddenly cried. The footman followed the dwarf's gaze to see a group of purple-skinned archers running towards them. The undead besieging the hill fled before the new arrivals.

"Reinforcements!" cheered the troops. "They cleared a path for us to safety!"

Aramoor was suspicious. They hadn't received any word about reinforcements, night elf or otherwise. But an exodus had already started from the hill. As the Alliance troops ran towards their "rescuers," the archers, as one, drew back their bows.

Aramoor saw what was about to happen.

"_Get back to the hill_! It's trap!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, but it was too late.

The Alliance troops hurtled right into a thousand barbed shafts. One knight, pierced with half a dozen arrows, still lived long enough to slam his broadsword through one of the Sentinels. Even from the hill, Aramoor could see that the wound drew no blood. These night elves were undead! Well preserved corpses.

Kirielle's reputation as a brilliant tactician was well-deserved.

The ambush had been devastating. Only a few dozen footmen had remained with Aramoor and Kirkendale on the hill, and now thousands of Scourge soldiers resumed their attack. They would certainly be overwhelmed through sheer weight of numbers.

"Everyone gather around me!" shouted Kirkendale. "I have a spell, 'mass teleport'. I'll take us to Bryony's troops at the bridge."

The mage started chanting arcane words and was surrounded by a blue haze. Just as the mass of undead reached the top of the hill, the Alliance soldiers disappeared in a flash of magic, only to reappear alongside Bryony's force.

There was little time to celebrate the reunion, however. The battle raged without pause.

The number of Alliance warriors had thinned so considerably that the undead could no longer withdraw when Bryony came near. With only one pocket of resistance left, the ranger was always at the center of the fighting. Golden hair flowing out behind her, she fought valiantly at the head of her troops. Her skill and courage were inspiring, but Aramoor knew that nothing could stave off the inevitable.

This would be his last battle. There was no way the Alliance could win. He would die without ever having declared his love for the Pathfinder. His only consolation was that Bryony might yet live to see another day. The ranger had not a scratch upon her; the undead were making no effort at all to target the high elf. He fervently hoped that, whatever Kirielle's intentions were, they were merciful.

"_Yestaris Delira_!" Bryony shouted in dismay. "I'm out of arrows."

The fighting, abruptly, stopped.

Tens of thousands of Scourge troops formed a tight circle around the remains of Berian's army, but they did not attack. Only Aramoor, Kirkendale, Bryony, and a dozen footmen were still alive. All of them were bloodied and exhausted. Only the Pathfinder lacked serious wounds.

"_KIRIELLE!!_!"

The name echoed across the blasted battlefield. The immense horde of the damned shouted it over and over, in macabre homage to their great general.

And then, the ranks of the Scourge troops parted, and for the first time Aramoor beheld the banshee that was Kirielle Lenaire.

**Chapter 60**

The dark ranger was sorrow incarnate. The undead elf possessed an aura of sadness about her that was so deep, so poignant that Aramoor felt tears come to his eyes merely from looking upon her. He felt, somehow, that it was wrong of him to stand before her, to intrude on what certainly must be the woman's unimaginable grief.

Kirielle's skin was gray; her hair was silver. Her clothes resembled Bryony's, but they were the color of midnight.

Her eyes were bottomless pits of darkness. Aramoor felt he could be lost forever staring into those two black pools…

With great effort he was able to tear his gaze away.

The undead had stopped shouting, and a heavy silence settled over the battlefield.

_Nobody_ moved. Not the dozen remaining Alliance footmen, not the tens of thousands of living corpses surrounding them. Not Kirkendale, not Aramoor. All eyes were on the two high elves.

The dark ranger faced the light ranger. Cold death regarded vibrant life.

Bryony broke the silence. "Oh Kirielle…"

Tears trickled down the living elf's cheeks. She obviously hated to see her friend as one of the cursed undead.

Kirielle's face was expressionless. She said nothing.

For a minute the only sound was of Bryony's soft weeping.

"I'm so sorry, Kirielle!" the living elf suddenly blurted. "I'm so sorry that I was too late to save you on Northrend."

She fell down on her knees. "Please, _please_ forgive me!"

At last the dark ranger spoke. Her voice was like the rustling of dead leaves.

"I forgive you."

Bryony looked at her friend tearfully, intensely. "Let me help you!"

"Help…me?" the dark ranger echoed dully.

"Yes, I…I want to help you…"

"How?"

"I don't know. Tell me how I can bring you back to life, or at least grant you the peace of final death."

Silence reigned again. Kirielle closed her eyes and said nothing. A minute passed.

Suddenly dark ranger's eyes flew open, and she spoke with passion.

"Do you remember as children when we would go out at night, into the forests of Quel'thalas, and try to catch fireflies?"

"Yes."

"But we don't do it now, do we?"

"No."

"It seems to have lost its charm somewhere along the way, hasn't it?"

"I suppose so…"

"But you feel some small bit of nostalgia remembering it, don't you?"

"Yes."

"When we were children, we lived a different way of life. We had a different perspective. When the Lich King killed me, he told me he was giving me a new outlook on existence. He was right. In the same way you feel nostalgic for your childhood, I feel nostalgic for my entire life as a high elf. But just like you can't go back, I can't go back. The only time I feel alive anymore is when I'm… killing someone. I revel in slaughtering the living; the sound of their heartbeat sputtering and dying is music to my ears. The old part of me, my old self, cries out from inside me that this is wrong -- but it's a small voice, as small as the voice within you now, calling for you to play in the forests at night…to chase fireflies…"

"Oh Kirielle, you have to fight it! You have to fight the darkness within you!"

"I'm tired of fighting, Bryony. I'm burned out. I've tried so _hard_ to rebel against the Lich King, but all it has gotten me is pain. Endless, unyielding pain. I'm so tired of being tortured--"

"Damn the Lich King! Damn him for doing this to you! I swear--"

"The Lich King wants you, you know. He wants you badly. You alone out of all the Pathfinders have evaded his chains. He's taken Nara Pathstrider, Anya Eversong, Anthis Sunbow, Somand Wayfinder… he's taken our beloved leader, Sylvanas. He's taken all of us but you…"

"_No_!!" cried Bryony, her voice full of despair.

"I've spoken to some of the other dark rangers. They're…different now. They're not like you and me. They've surrendered. Maybe…maybe I've surrendered too…I'm not sure anymore…"

"Don't surrender! Don't give up! You--"

Kirielle interrupted. "I worship the Lich King now. I adore him, and I don't even know why. Isn't that odd? Worshipping him makes the pain stop…"

The dark ranger clutched at some type of circlet she was wearing, one with a light blue stone set in it. "Sometimes, I think suffering is the only thing I have left. It's so painfully strange to worship the one you hate above all else…"

Aramoor saw now that Kirielle was insane. Looking at Bryony's face, the footman could see she realized it as well.

"Kirielle…you need help. I want to help you," the living ranger said with heartfelt pity.

The dark ranger sighed. "I may not ever be able to escape from the curse of Unlife. I may not _want_ to escape. But I know a way to make it bearable. You said you want to help me…well, there is a way you can help me…"

"What?! I'll do anything!"

The undead ranger slowly approached the living one. "I'm so _lonely_, Bryony. I don't want to spend the rest of eternity alone…I want to spend it with you…"

Kirielle had reached her Heartfriend. She pulled Bryony up out of her kneeling position and embraced her.

"You can stand by my side, and we can draw strength from each other. The Lich King wants you badly, but I want you more…"

The dark ranger took Bryony's tearstained face in her hands, and brought it so that they stood face to face -- so that they were looking into each other's eyes. Gently, Kirielle kissed her friend.

"_Kesanu Ferilis_! I love you Bryony. I love you so much I fear I'm going to have to kill you."

**Chapter 61**

Bryony gasped and wrenched herself free of Kirielle's embrace. She stared at her undead friend in shock.

Kirielle stepped back, and made some sort of hand signal to her troops.

Immediately, a platoon of ghouls and crypt fiends detached themselves from the throng of undead. With surgical precision they attacked, driving a wedge between Bryony and the remaining Alliance soldiers.

In seconds Aramoor was fighting for his life against a pack of ghouls. Desperately, he tried to reach Bryony. Without arrows the ranger would be helpless! But the ghouls were blocking his way. He knew he'd never reach her in time.

"Kirkendale!" he shouted. "Can you use that 'mass teleport' spell to get us out of here?"

"Well, yes," the wizard said as he sidestepped a ghoul's savage attack. "I could teleport us to Jaina's headquarters at the World Tree."

"Do it!"

"Uh, sorry. It's a very powerful spell. I have to wait before I can cast it again."

"How long?"

"Maybe five minutes…"

"Bryony doesn't _have_ five minutes! _We_ don't have five minutes!"

Bryony screamed in terror as four crypt fiends pounced on her. Without arrows, all the Pathfinder could do was beat at the undead nerubians with her fists, to little effect. Within moments the ranger's arms and legs had been pinned to the ground.

Kirielle pointed to a nearby slab of rock that jutted out of the ground at an angle. "Secure her to that," she ordered.

The crypt fiends dragged the struggling ranger to the slab, forcing her down upon it. Then they used their sticky webs to bind the elf's hands and feet to the rock. Bryony was immobilized.

Her pitiful sobs of fear tore at Aramoor's heart. Damn the undead! Damn Kirielle! Bryony deserved better than this! Fury overtook him.

He crushed a ghoul's spine with his sword. He smashed his armored fist through the rotting face of another. He hacked a third ghoul's head off. Howling like a wounded animal, he swung his sword in a wide arc, killing two of the clawed undead with one stroke.

He cut through his enemies without mercy. Bryony was all that mattered, and they stood between him and her.

The last of the ghoul platoon fell. Chest heaving, panting, bloody, Aramoor looked to see what kind of support he could count on from the other Alliance soldiers. Six of the footmen were still alive, as was Kirkendale. It might be enough to break through the crypt fiend platoon that surrounded Bryony…

Though of course there was nothing to stop Kirielle from sending more of her limitless horde into battle…

"Impressive!" the dark ranger said as she looked at the remains of her twenty ghouls. "Alliance heroes. There are still some left. How refreshing. I was getting tired of slaughtering illiterate peasants pressed into military service. Unfortunately for you, I have heroes of my own. Zerah! Zenedar! Come here!"

A dreadlord pushed his way through the throng of undead.

"Kirielle," he growled. "You overstep your authority. You cannot give orders to _me_. I'm your commanding officer."

"I thought you wanted glory in battle, Zenedar. I thought you wanted to shed the label of being a cowardly, incompetent general. What would your demon brethren say if they saw you shirking from combat with a handful of lowly, battered humans?"

"Fine!" the dreadlord grumbled. "Consider them dead. I suppose this'll be my last chance to kill something for a while…I doubt there'll be much left after Lord Archimond corrupts the World Tree."

A female night elf wielding a halberd came to stand beside Kirielle. She was the biggest elf that Aramoor had ever seen. The Sentinel was covered in sleek muscles, except for her stomach, which seemed unnaturally swollen. Even as Aramoor watched, the night elf's belly pulsated with an unholy rhythm, as if some snake writhed under her skin. It was obscene.

Bryony had stopped her sobbing to regard the Sentinel. "You're a night elf! How could you betray your own people to fight for the Scourge?!"

Kirielle answered the question. "Ah, poor Zerah didn't join us by choice, but then I guess most people don't. She was supposed to protect all of western Ashenvale, but that's a very big job for anyone. Maybe a little too big. I guess you could say the poor Priestess of the Moon bit off more than she could chew."

The dark ranger patted Zerah's belly affectionately. It quivered like jelly.

Something about the night elf's name seemed familiar to Aramoor. Then he had it. The briefing. Zerah. Priestess of the Moon. She was the leader of the Starseeker tribe! The earlier ambush with well-preserved undead Sentinels began to make sense.

If the Starseekers had been inducted into the Scourge, that meant no one was guarding against the demon army coming from the west. And with Berian's northern army decimated, there was nothing to stop Kirielle from reaching the World Tree either. Even if Jaina and the orcs and night elves were able to defeat Archimond in the south, both back doors to Nordrassil would fall. That meant the Burning Legion had just won the war.

**Chapter 62**

"Despair, mortals! Your last moments are upon you!"

Zenedar leapt to the attack, tearing out the throat of one of the Alliance footmen with his razor-sharp claws.

The seven remaining Alliance soldiers struggled to hold off the frenzied demon.

The sound of steel clashing on claws intermingled with the panting of the exhausted humans. Occasionally a cry of pain would be added into the mix.

Aramoor noticed that one of the footmen had snuck up behind the dreadlord, and was about to impale him through the back. But then a blur of motion ended with a sickening crunch.

Zerah had cloven the human warrior in twain. Twirling her halberd expertly, the night elf wordlessly attacked.

Alone, Aramoor faced the undead Sentinel while his fellows traded blows with Zenedar.

The first time Aramoor parried one of the undead Priestess's attacks, he feared his sword might shatter from the impact. Gods the woman was strong! And despite her size, she was quick as well.

The footman had to use all his skill just to defend himself; Zerah never gave him a chance to go on the offensive. For the first time since Northrend he was facing an opponent in melee combat who was clearly his better. He needed help.

Aramoor looked to see the battle with Zenedar had shifted towards the booby-trapped bridge.

"Kirkendale! Get over here and help me!"

"Sorry, we're kind of busy right now," the mage replied as he narrowly dodged a claw swipe. "Can you wait a minute?"

"I won't be _alive_ in a minute! _Help_!"

"OK! OK!"

A few seconds later, Kirkendale's "help" arrived. But the water elemental survived all of five seconds in combat with the Priestess.

Meanwhile, Kirielle stood before the stone slab where Bryony was bound. Calmly the dark ranger took a glowing dagger out of its sheath, and used it to shear off the living ranger's clothes.

"The Lich King likes us to wear black. I've had a new set of clothes already made for you. Your waist size is still the same as mine, right? "

Bryony moaned in terror.

**Chapter 63**

Aramoor was covered with wounds, many of them serious. So far the best he had been able to do against Zerah was nick her bloated stomach with the tip of his sword. A small stream of foul-smelling grayish liquid oozed out of the minor puncture wound.

Hmmm…

The footman knew a water elemental spell consisted of two parts. The first and easiest part was to create a small amount of water. The hard part, the one that used the most mana, involved imbuing the water with an elemental spirit. The first part of the spell could actually be skipped if there was a sufficiently large body of water nearby.

"Kirkendale! You about ready to cast another water elemental spell?"

"Yeah, in a few seconds."

"Help me out here! Hit the elf with the spell!"

"Uh, we already tried that. She just cleaves through my elementals."

"No! No! Target the _elf_! Don't create the water!"

Recognition dawned on mage's face.

Seconds later, a strange warbling sound came from Zerah's bloated gut. The Sentinel momentarily halted her attack.

Suddenly, the elf's swollen belly erupted in a spray of gore and unholy water. A vile-smelling water elemental composed of plagued liquid emerged from the Sentinel's ruined stomach. Zerah stared at the thing in shock. It was all the time Aramoor needed to decapitate her.

The footman looked to see how Bryony was doing. Kirielle held the glowing dagger over the living high elf as she chanted some kind of magical incantation. He needed to finish this, quickly.

He started towards Bryony, but was only able to take a few steps before he was overwhelmed by the nauseating scent assaulting his nose. The blown-open night elf _reeked_ of the plague!

Retching uncontrollably, he tried to wipe off the coating of putrescent slime on his armor-- he had been a little too close to the undead Priestess when she had exploded.

Meanwhile, Kirkendale directed his disgusting elemental to attack Zenedar. The watery minion hit the demon in the face with its foul liquid.

"Gah! I'm blind!" the dreadlord shrieked as he staggered backward.

The footmen on the bridge moved forward for the kill.

"Kirielle! Help me!"

The dark ranger looked up from her incantation, annoyed. "_Jeris Decara_! Can't you do anything right, demon?"

"I _order_ you to help me! The Lich King and the Burning Legion said you were to follow my instructions to the letter! Kill all my opponents! Now!"

The dark ranger set aside the glowing dagger and drew her bow. "Well, if you say so. Let me strike this blow for the Undead Scourge! For Ner'zhul!"

Taking careful aim, the dark ranger sent an arrow hurtling towards the bridge. It slammed into the back of a footman and continued out the other side to hit one of the barrels of volatile explosives the Alliance troops had placed on the bridge. At last, the booby trap was triggered. The barrel detonated, triggering a chain reaction. The bridge, the barrels, the dreadlord, the water elemental, and the four footmen were all blown to pieces.

Kirkendale only survived because he had been using magic to attack from a distance, rather than fighting Zenedar hand-to-hand on the bridge's center like the others.

Aramoor had recovered from his nausea, and now he approached Kirielle, sword drawn.

"Your heroes are dead, banshee."

The dark ranger was unperturbed. "Ah well, no great loss. I'll resurrect Zerah at an Altar of Darkness. Zenedar, however, has outlived his usefulness."

Aramoor got an idea. "Killing Bryony won't do you any good. She'll just get revived at an Altar of Kings."

The footman knew that Bryony wasn't linked to an Altar of Kings because there were none within range. If she died it would be final. But Kirielle didn't have to know that.

The dark ranger shrugged. "Actually, Bryony won't be resurrected thanks to my runeblade. In a few moments, when I complete the ritual to steal her soul, she will be stuck to the Frozen Throne. There's no coming back from that."

Bryony wept softly. "Kirielle, is this how it ends between us? You were my best friend, but now…I don't know what you are…"

The dark ranger didn't reply, but instead began to finish her incantation.

The mass of thousands of undead that had been looking on surged forward. Apparently their mistress had given them a mental command to kill Aramoor and Kirkendale.

Aramoor turned to his mage comrade. "Kirkendale! We're out of time! Cast your mass teleport spell!"

"It's not ready!" the wizard wailed, despairing.

Kirielle finished her incantation. She raised her dagger to strike, a maniacal gleam in her eyes.

"You and me Bryony. We're going to be friends…_forever_!"

**Chapter 64**

Aramoor grabbed Kirkendale roughly. "Cast the damn teleport spell!"

"I told you, it's not ready!"

The charging undead horde was only meters away. They were going to die, and Bryony was going to worse than die. His angel had seconds, _seconds_ left to live!

"CAST IT!!" the footman screamed.

Kirielle plunged her runeblade downward. Bryony screamed. A blue haze enveloped Kirkendale.

The three Alliance soldiers disappeared in a flash of magic. Kirielle's dagger struck only hard stone.

**Chapter 65**

Aramoor, Kirkendale, and Bryony reappeared in a dense forest. There were no undead in sight.

Aramoor immediately bent over his shaken high elf Heartfriend. With great relief he noted that she was unharmed.

"I was so scared," the ranger murmured. "I just can't believe that Kirielle would…"

Her voice choked off in tears.

Aramoor took stock of their surroundings. They were somewhere in Ashenvale, but where?

"I thought we were supposed to end up at Jaina's base," Aramoor said to Kirkendale.

"I told you the spell wasn't ready," the mage huffed. "You're lucky we didn't end up at the bottom of the ocean, or half-stuck in a rock formation."

"So does anyone have any idea where we are?" Aramoor asked.

Kirkendale took a compass out of a pocket. "I don't think we were teleported very far. Just a few kilometers to the west of where we were. I guess we should wait until I can cast mass teleport _correctly_. Then we can link up with Jaina and tell her the bad news."

That sobered their mood a bit. They had failed to stop Kirielle. Both the northern and western approaches to the World Tree were undefended. They had escaped with their lives, but how much longer would they be able to live in a world corrupted by demons?

Aramoor's head swam. He had lost a lot of blood from his wounds, and he still stank of the nauseating water he had been drenched with when Zerah exploded. Abruptly he collapsed on the soft forest floor.

Bryony rushed to his side. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"I'll make it," he said, managing to give her a weak smile.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." And with that the ranger disappeared into the forest. Even without her green camouflage clothes she was able to blend right in with the wilderness.

She returned a few minutes later carrying what looked to be some grass, bark, roots, and flowers.

"All Pathfinders are taught basic herbalism," she explained. "It's not as good for healing as say, a priest's magic, but it's better than nothing."

The ranger's touch was cool and gentle; it didn't hurt very much when she tried to bandage and dress his wounds with her meager supplies. In fact it gave him a warm fuzzy feeling inside. Or maybe he felt that way because he was about to faint from blood loss.

When Bryony was finished she moved on to Kirkendale, doing her best to help him as well.

Aramoor asked the mage how much longer it would be before he could cast a teleport spell.

"I'm out of mana. It'll be thirty minutes at least, but I don't -- hey! Did you two just hear something?"

A rustling sound was indeed coming from behind some nearby oak trees. Had the undead found them already? It seemed almost impossible that Kirielle's minions could have sniffed them out so quickly.

If the noisemaker was an enemy, they were in trouble. Bryony was naked and weaponless. Aramoor and Kirkendale both had serious wounds. They were in no condition to win a battle.

**Chapter 66**

As it turned out, they had not encountered an enemy, but a riderless warhorse.

The horse's tabard had an Alliance insignia on it, and an elven arrow stuck out of its haunches. Apparently it had belonged to one of the knights who had died in Kirielle's undead night elf ambush.

"Poor thing!" Bryony said, all sympathy. "That arrow wound looks nasty."

The elf started towards the horse with her herbs.

"Wait!" cried Aramoor. "Stay away from it. Wounded animals can be dangerous; it could be mad with fear or pain. It could attack you."

But the ranger ignored him. "Animals are my friends," she said simply.

When the elf came near, the horse rolled its eyes and whinnied nervously.

But Byony cooed to the beast in Elvish. Her soothing tone calmed the animal almost immediately. Aramoor had never seen anything like it.

"I have a plan," the ranger announced as she set to work on the arrow wound. "A plan to save the world."

When Aramoor heard it, he hated it.

**Chapter 67**

The plan revolved around the assumption that Kirielle was obsessed with making Bryony a dark ranger.

After all that had happened, this was not a very hard assumption to make.

"I can't believe you want us to go back to Kirielle!" Aramoor said incredulously. "We were damned lucky to escape from her a few minutes ago!"

"But a few minutes ago we were surrounded by the undead. And we didn't have a horse."

Bryony patted the animal's head affectionately. It nuzzled up against her. "Kirielle's after me, and I mean personally. I just hope she wants me bad enough to abandon her attack on the World Tree."

"I don't like using you as bait," Aramoor growled. "Luring Kirielle away from Nordrassil is terribly dangerous for you. If she catches you…"

"I understand the risk," the Pathfinder said without hesitation. "We shouldn't waste any more time. Let's go."

The three of them mounted the warhorse. Burdened thusly, the animal wouldn't be able to move as fast as it normally could. But hopefully it would be fast enough to outrun the undead.

Kirkendale was right. They had only been teleported a few kilometers west of the where Berian's army had been decimated. They were able to intercept Kirielle's endless horde of the damned within a few minutes.

Thousands of undead eyes stared at the three Alliance soldiers in shock. "It's the high elf the mistress wants!" shouted one of the necromancers. "Get her!"

The chase began.

**Chapter 68**

Hours later, the warhorse collapsed from exhaustion. The undead were only a few hundred meters behind.

"We'll have to run for it," Aramoor said.

The three Alliance soldiers dashed through Ashenvale forest, but Kirielle's horde was gaining on them with alarming speed.

At last the forest made way for a grassy meadow. At the far side of the meadow Azgalor's army of demons was marching eastward towards the World Tree. When they saw two humans and a high elf, they charged to the attack.

Aramoor, Kirkendale, and Bryony found themselves in the center of the meadow, with the Burning Legion coming from one side and the Undead Scourge coming from the other.

"The mistress only wants the high elf alive!" shouted a black-robed mage. "Kill the other two."

The leading necromancer shot a bolt of energy from his stave at Aramoor, but the footman saw it coming and stepped aside. The magical bolt kept on going and slammed into a doom guard.

Though it did little damage, the massive demon didn't seem to care. "Treachery!" the fiend howled. The demon cast a magic spell of his own, incinerating the hapless necromancer and several other nearby Scourge troops in a rain of fire.

One thing led to another, and soon the three Alliance soldiers were forgotten as the demons and undead tore into each other. A blue haze surrounded Kirkendale. They teleported to Jaina's headquarters.

**Chapter 69**

They ended up in the middle of a large mess hall packed with hundreds of Alliance troops. Everyone stared at them in amazement, and rightly so. They must have looked quite a sight…

A bloodied wizard.

A footman that was both bloodied and covered with faint traces of rancid slime.

A high elf naked as the day she was born.

An Alliance Colonel approached them. "What the bloody heck is going on here? You people can't just teleport into Jaina's headquarters looking like…like…"

"Like we've just been though hell? Like we just saved the world?" Aramoor offered.

"Oh, so you think you're funny? Let's see how funny it is when I throw you in the brig! I've just--"

Aramoor smashed his fist into the Colonel's face, and the man went down in a heap. _Gods_ that had felt good! He had wanted to do that to some Alliance officer, any Alliance officer, for the longest time.

**Chapter 70**

_Later, on the blasted ruins of a battlefield in Ashenvale, Kirielle surveyed the remains of her once mighty army. The shattered corpses of Scourge soldiers lay everywhere, interspersed with the bodies of not a few demons. _

_She had won the battle; she always won the battles. But she had lost the war._

_Not the Lich King's' war or the Burning Legion's war, but her war. _

_The fight to preserve her humanity._

_Bryony had been her only hope, her only remaining link to the past. The living ranger had been the only thing standing between the dark ranger's eternal salvation or damnation. _

_The banshee's last hope had slipped through her fingers._

_On that desolate, lifeless plain, the high elf named Kirielle Lenaire died. Or maybe, she had died a long time ago._


	5. Part 5

Part 4

**Heartwell, Part 5**

**Chapter 71**

After the defeat of Archimond at the Battle of Mount Hyjal, Jaina organized a celebration in honor of the Alliance's victory. She announced that they would be staying at their base on Kalimdor, on Theramoore Isle, to establish a new beginning for humanity. But Aramoor didn't want to eke out a harsh existence on the rocky island. Jaina's vision of the future was not for him…

Luckily, there was an alternative. Jaina promised that once the last remnants of the Legion had been defeated on Kalimdor, she would devote resources to re-establishing contact with Lordaeron. A ship would be sent. Aramoor started making inquiries about how he could get assigned to the mission…

**Chapter 72**

Despite the Legion's defeat, the fighting did not end on Kalimdor. A lot of surviving demons and undead had fled into the forests, and these enemies needed to be rooted out one by one. And in these campaigns to cleanse the land of evil's taint, no one fought harder than Bryony. She volunteered for every mission, and when they refused to give her missions she struck out on her own. The Pathfinder would be gone for days or weeks at a time, only to return long enough to stock up on supplies and inform the Alliance that this or that enemy commander had died at the tip of her serrated arrows. Then she would be gone again. Hunting.

Aramoor tried to impress upon the high elf the danger of what she was doing, but when he talked she heard only the wind. Nothing could dissuade her from her war against evil. In desperation, the footman tried to accompany the ranger on her hunts, but he could never keep up. Always within a few minutes the Pathfinder had outpaced him and melted into the forest. Then there would be nothing left for him to do but trek back to camp and await her return.

One year later, the last of the holdouts on Kalimdor were dead. Kirielle was the only enemy general unaccounted for. The dark ranger and her army had not been seen since the events of the Battle of Mount Hyjal.

**Chapter 73**

Bryony returned, and Aramoor was happy.

With the Legion and Scourge defeated on Kalimdor, the ranger would not be going on any more dangerous hunts. Aramoor had hardly had a chance to see her or talk to her this past year, and he had felt her absence keenly. He'd spent his time pining after the angelic high elf, or doing menial tasks to help build Theramoore into the island fortress Jaina wanted it to be. But now, at last, he would be reunited with his Heartfriend…

"I have a favor to ask," the Pathfinder said when they met.

"Anything for you."

"I've heard there's going to be another high elf conclave. I want you to come."

Aramoor didn't understand. "I thought humans weren't allowed to participate in these…conclaves…"

"They're not. But with the defeat of the Burning Legion, my people have started to turn against each other. The loss of the Sunwell has created a sickness in the hearts of the high elves. Its made us bitter. Factions have arisen. Some are shaking their fists openly at Jaina or the Alliance or both. It's going to get ugly."

"You're expecting violence?"

The ranger sighed. "I don't know. But whatever happens, I want you by my side."

"Of course."

The ranger showed him some kind of miniature totem pole. "This is called a sentry ward. I bought it from a troll witchdoctor in Durotar. I'll hide it in the Arcane Sanctum where the conclave is to be held. It'll allow you to see and hear everything that goes on. All you need to do is wait outside the building. If I need your help…well…"

"I'll be there," Aramoor promised.

**Chapter 74**

The paved streets of Theramoore were crowded with a steady stream of high elves making their way towards the Arcane Sanctum. Bryony had been one of the first to enter. She'd concealed the sentry ward beneath the folds of her clothes.

Aramoor lounged by a nearby town hall. The clock tower on the building showed it to be 10 at night. The conclave would be starting any minute.

A clear mental image of the inside of the Sanctum suddenly sprang into the footman's mind. Bryony had planted the sentry ward.

In his mind's eye he explored the building. A central chamber was dominated by a large podium. Banners of the various high elf Houses of Quel'thalas decorated the walls. The podium was ringed with countless chairs. The room was packed with elves.

It wasn't hard to spot Bryony. Most of the high elves were priests or mages. The Pathfinder's camouflage green clothes stood out against the sea of pristine white and red robes.

He could hear the high elves talking. It was hard to single out individual voices, but it seemed that Bryony was the topic of much hushed conversation. He heard the phrase, "Look, it's the Pathfinder," whispered many times.

Then Aramoor recognized another high elf. Berian. Apparently the priest had survived the events of the Battle of Mount Hyjal. But then, since the coward had fled the fighting, that wasn't too much of a surprise.

Berian pushed through the crowd to stand before Bryony. The ranger was shocked to see him.

"What are you doing here?" she wanted to know.

"I'm here for the same reason you are," the priest answered. "I may have lost my army and my rank in the Alliance, but I still have considerable clout with our people. I've been wanting to talk to you…"

"About what?"

"How about we talk in private. We still have a few minutes before the meeting starts."

He led her to an empty side chamber and closed the door behind them.

The priest started talking immediately. "I was going to make an announcement and I wanted to be certain of your support. People know you, and respect you. Your word carries influence, though not as much influence as my own of course…I'd have come to you earlier, but you were always out, hunting…"

Bryony was impatient. "Well, I'm here now. Speak."

"I've re-established magical contact with our brethren across the sea. Prince Kael'thas is leading them."

"Well, that's good. Jaina must be pleased. What did Kael'thas have to say?"

"I haven't told Jaina."

Bryony frowned. "Why not?"

Berian avoided the question. "You've felt the emptiness inside, haven't you? Ever since the Sunwell was desecrated…"

"Yes, we've all felt the emptiness inside."

"Kael'thas has discovered a cure for the emptiness."

Suddenly Bryony was very interested. "_Wysaris Catino_! That's great! What is it?"

"Demons," the priest said grimly.

The Pathfinder was stunned. "Wha-what?"

"Remember what the Sentinel told us in Ashenvale? It was true. All of it. We are the Quel'dorei. The High Borne. We are better than the other races. It's time for us to take our rightful place in the world. It's time for us to embrace our true heritage! To embrace demonic magic…"

"By the _Gods_ man! You're a priest of the Light!"

"Isn't it obvious?" Berian said heatedly. "The Light has abandoned us! The Light has forsaken us! We were pious. We prayed, we propitiated, we _believed_, and look at what it has gotten us! Look at our eternal reward! The desecration of our homeland and our Sunwell! The slaughter of our people!"

The priest shook his fist at the ceiling and talked as though the Holy Light was present in the room. "I denounce you! I disown you! Do you hear me?! I DISOWN YOU!"

He turned to Bryony. "The Light has abandoned us so we shall abandon it in turn."

The ranger shook her head. "This is crazy talk--"

"No! It is not. Where was the Light to protect us? Where was your precious Nature to protect the ranger corps? We turned away from the Burning Legion, and this is our punishment. We strayed from the true path. We strayed from our _destiny_!"

Bryony was getting angry. "History has proven time and time again that the only path paved by dealing with demons is one of damnation. Only fools swear themselves to the Legion."

"Join us, Bryony. With Sylvanas dead and the Council of Silvermoon gone, you're one of the last leaders of our people. You're the last Pathfinder. One of the last links to our old way of life. I want you to join with me in publicly denouncing that way of life."

"Never!"

"We call ourselves blood elves. You can be the first blood ranger. Your fighting prowess may be exceptional now, but just think how much more formidable you'll be with the fiery powers of the Burning Legion behind you!"

"Has the Sunwell's corruption warped your mind?!"

Berian was losing patience. "Our people have no choice. None whatsoever. This is the only cure for our people's magic addiction. There is no other way."

"There must be! I won't go along with this! I'll fight against it!"

"Don't even think of making me an enemy!" the priest snarled. "I don't need you. I can break you as easily as I can snap one of your wooden arrows."

"I don't know you!" cried Bryony. "You are not my friend! They asked me to give a speech for this…conclave. I think I know what I'm going to talk about."

She turned to leave.

"You cannot deny your yourself! You cannot deny your destiny!" Berian shouted after her.

**Chapter 75**

The conclave began.

It started off cordially enough, with welcoming speeches and the like. But then the seams started to show. The high elves were indeed divided into several factions, and Berian was leading one of them. Unfortunately, the priest was scheduled to speak before Bryony.

When he got up before the podium, he didn't have a lot of nice things to say about the ranger.

"I'd like to discuss several things tonight," the priest began. "The first one being a trust betrayed. I am, of course, referring to the elven ranger corps."

Murmurs sounded through the crowd. Already this speech looked like it was going to be confrontational, and it was.

"We entrusted the rangers with the defense of our homeland and our sacred Sunwell. We entrusted them with the protection of our forests, our homes, our children and spouses. We left on Jaina's expedition believing these things to be safe. We were taken for saps by the ranger corps! We gave them gold and support, and how did they repay us? By practically _giving_ our nation to the Undead Scourge! Quel'thalas fell in _days_! We spent 10,000 years building it, and the ranger corps allowed it to be destroyed in a matter of days!"

The priest's sermon was getting louder and more forceful.

"What we have here is a case of criminal incompetence…One only has to look in this chamber to see that the trust we placed in the rangers was a trust betrayed. The vows the rangers took to protect the Sunwell at all times were false! Un-honored! Look at the Pathfinder in this room!"

Berian pointed his staff at Bryony in the audience. The murmurs intensified.

"Her mere presence is proof of what I say. She should have been in Quel'thalas, protecting all that we held dear. But she is here! An elf is only as good as their word. That is the way it has always been. We placed our trust in the rangers because they took a set of vows they never intended to honor--"

Bryony couldn't take it anymore. "_Estisa Qelfara_! That's a lie!" she screamed.

Berian continued. "She is a coward and a traitor to our people, and I move that we take action against her accordingly…"

Aramoor could watch no longer. This was getting out of hand.

He realized he couldn't just barge into the Arcane Sanctum, sword drawn. Berian's xenophobic faction would certainly attack him. Others might as well. He'd have to find help. But the clock on the town hall read 12 at night. No Alliance commanders would see him at this hour -- he was still just a lowly Private in rank.

But, maybe he could call in a favor he was owed…

**Chapter 76**

Minutes later, the door to the Sanctum was kicked in. A squad of Alliance soldiers led by Aramoor and Kirkendale marched in.

Berian was still at the podium. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded angrily. "You people have no right to--"

Kirkendale interrupted. " Berian, you are under arrest for high treason to the Alliance. Consorting with demons is a crime punishable by death."

There were gasps from the audience. The elves in Berian's faction glared at the Alliance soldiers with open hatred, but they made no move to intervene when their leader was led away in chains.

The conclave began to break up. As the high elves streamed out of the building, Aramoor desperately searched for Bryony. At last he found her slumped in her chair, tears in her eyes.

"So this is what we've come to," she said to Aramoor. "I never imagined our race could fall so far, so quickly…"

The footman consoled her as best he could. He found it infuriating that some of Bryony's own people could treat her so poorly. She deserved great praise for all that she had done, not contempt.

"Take me away from here," the ranger sobbed despondently, looking at the hundreds of now-empty seats in the Sanctum. "I can't face my own people anymore. I…I just want to go away."

He held her tightly. "I'll take you away," he promised.

**Chapter 77**

The ship to Lordaeron left the next week. Aramoor and Bryony were on board.

Apparently the footman wasn't the only one who didn't share Jaina's vision of the future. Many Alliance soldiers didn't wish to build a future on Theramoore, but to return to the lands they knew -- even if those lands had been ravaged by war. Competition to get assigned to the mission to re-establish contact with Lordaeron had been fierce; the ship was small and could only accommodate twenty passengers.

The result was that most of those passengers were heroes who had a great deal of political clout. Aramoor had been very lucky to get a place on the mission with Bryony. Kirkendale had been a great help in making that happen. Jaina had assigned the mage to be the mission leader.

Aramoor had no regrets in leaving Kalimdor. He had never liked the continent's strange climate or inhabitants.

After the incident at the Arcane Sanctum, Bryony had become very quiet and withdrawn. She talked little and kept to herself. The only time she had spoken a complete sentence to Aramoor was when he had asked her if she needed help in packing for the mission.

"I'm wearing everything I own," the elf had said with great bitterness.

But now the ship was on its way. As Aramoor looked at Kalimdor receding in the distance, he felt at peace. The war had been won. Victory belonged to Jaina's brave troops, and the taste was sweet. It was time to reap the rewards of peace. For too long he had denied himself. Tonight, he decided, would be the night he declared his everlasting love for Bryony.

**Chapter 78**

Dinner was served in the largest room on the ship. An impressive oak table that could accommodate all of the ship's twenty passengers dominated the wooden cabin. The fare was excellent, and the conversation was about…the future, of course.

The Alliance heroes talked with great enthusiasm about their plans. Kirkendale talked of how he had always wanted a son, and now that he had baby Alvar he would live a great life. A dwarven hero spoke of going back to Khaz Modan to become a high ranking official called a Clan Master. A paladin talked of how he had raised enough money to found a monastery in his homeland of Azeroth.

One-by-one they went around the table, sharing stories of great expectations and promising endeavors. The feelings of hope and optimism permeated the room. Looking at all the smiling faces, Aramoor realized with satisfaction that this is what the Alliance had fought to defend. Despite the destruction of the Legion's invasion, life would go on. Humanity would recover.

It was a happy ship of happy heroes.

At last it was Bryony's turn to speak. Everyone turned towards her expectantly.

To Aramoor's surprise the elf looked stricken. She stared at the others with wide eyes, her lips trembling. A large tear slid down her cheek and plopped onto her food, which had hardly been touched.

There was an awkward silence.

"Ex-excuse me," the ranger stammered, pushing back her chair. She leapt up and ran out of the room, sobbing.

What had gotten into her?

**Chapter 79**

Aramoor found Bryony on the ship's deck. It was a beautiful night, filled with stars and a brilliant moon. The sea breeze was warm and comfortable.

The ranger was praying, as he had often seen her pray. Looking in the direction of Quel'thalas, kneeling, eyes closed, the Pathfinder's form was wracked with choking sobs.

The footman asked her what the matter was.

Bryony didn't look at him when she spoke. "All those stories of the future…they reminded me of my own future. Or lack thereof."

"You have a future, Bryony."

"Do I? The human lands still exist, at least some of them do. So do the dwarf lands. But what of _my_ homeland? What of Quel'thalas? What of _my_ people? I have nothing to go back to…I…I can't _do_ this anymore! I can't live anymore!"

There was an edge of hysteria in the elf's voice. Aramoor noticed the ranger's belt knife clenched tightly in her hands. The blade was pointed at her chest.

"Suicide is one of the greatest sins against Nature. But I have no other choice. I have no future. I can't go on."

Aramoor was horrified. He had to stop her!! "Give me the knife," he said gently, afraid to startle her.

"No!"

He slowly approached the ranger. "Give it to me."

"Stay back!" Her eyes flew open. She stared at him with wide-eyed…fear?

Aramoor had gotten close enough. He made his move.

With lighting speed he grabbed for the knife. Bryony gasped and tried to plunge it into her heart, but he was too quick. A struggle ensued.

The footman was surprised at how much strength there was in her slender form, but yet he still managed to overpower her. The knife clattered to the wooden deck.

Bryony let out a cry of frustration, but all the fight had gone out of her. She slumped against the ship's railing, weeping. "I'm so weak! Why do I have to be so damn weak!"

"You're not weak," Aramoor said soothingly. "You're strong. You're one of the greatest heroes of the Alliance. Look at yourself!"

She stared at her feet, sniffling.

"_Look at yourself_!" he commanded again. "You're brave, you're beautiful, you're intelligent. You have so much to live for!"

"No…I have no faith in anything anymore…"

"Of course you do. I saw you every morning praying in the direction of Quel'thalas."

The ranger laughed bitterly. "You thought I was praying? Every morning after the Sunwell was corrupted, I got up, and I tried to think of a reason to go on living, because I just couldn't _bear_ to face another day. Every time I came up with the same reason. It was the _war_. The war wasn't over yet. I had a purpose in life -- I could justify my existence because I was fighting evil! I was making a difference! But now that the war is over, I've lost my purpose. I have no more reason to live."

Suddenly she leapt for the knife. Aramoor kicked it over the railing into the ocean.

He grabbed her shoulders and looked at her intensely. A lock of gold hair had fallen across her tearstained face and he gently brushed it aside. Her blue eyes filled his vision.

"Bryony…you can't die. If you die I…I don't know what I'd do…I…I…"

There were tears in his eyes now too. He swallowed. "I love you."

The ranger looked at him searchingly.

"You…love…me?" she said slowly, as if she found it hard to form the words in her mouth.

She shook her head. "No of course you don't. How could you love me when I don't even love myself?"

She sighed. "I hate myself. I am Quel'dorei. Monster. High Borne. Demon-worshipper. Once I was proud to call myself a high elf. How little did I know…"

"Nonsense! You are your own person! Judge yourself by your own actions, not by those of your race!"

"Oh, where did we go wrong?" she wailed despairingly. "We were a beautiful people, a wonderful people…and now it's all gone. What's done cannot be undone. I'm all alone! Just like Kirielle I _have_ nothing left! The emptiness inside me is unbearable. I miss the Sunwell's warmth in my soul…now my spirit is sick, terribly wounded. It hurts so much… I have to end it…I have to fill the emptiness with something, don't you understand?"

The elf drew away from him.

"Berian and his ilk have replaced the emptiness with demonic magic. Kirielle has replaced it with the Frozen Throne. Those are the only two futures for my people. Futures of damnation. And if I have to choose between them, I choose Kirielle! I'll kill myself, and my elf spirit will wander, searching in vain for the eternal rest of the Sunwell. Then my essence will be found, gathered up at a temple of the damned, and I'll be reborn as a banshee."

"_No_!! There has to be another way! I won't let you die! What do I have to do to make you want live again!"

"There's nothing you can do. I may as well already be dead. I need to link my spirit to a power source to replace the terrible emptiness. I choose the Frozen Throne."

"Well why can't you find something else to link yourself to? Like the Holy Light?"

She shook her head. "No good. It needs to be a material object. A source of powerful magic. Like a demon, or the Frozen Throne. There aren't too many such things around--hence Berian's desperate alliance with the Burning Legion."

"Isn't there any way to reduce the emptiness besides linking yourself to a power source? Anything at all?"

She pondered for a moment. "Well, I suppose. If I linked my self to someone that wasn't addicted to magic, they'd share the burden of emptiness. It'd only be half as bad for me."

"Would it be bearable then? You would be able to live?"

"It would still be terrible, but I guess I could live. Not that it matters. No one would be crazy enough to link themselves to me in such a way."

"I would."

"It's dangerous, Aramoor. It could kill you."

"If you die Bryony, my future will die with you."

**Chapter 80**

Aramoor conscripted Kirkendale to cast the spell. They stood on the ship's deck, the night sky providing the only illumination.

"I must warn you," the mage said, "This is incredibly risky. You'll be linking your spirits together. Aramoor, the shock of touching Bryony's magic-addicted elf essence could _easily_ kill a human such as yourself. And even if you survive, you'll have to deal with the emptiness that addiction brings for the rest of your life. It'll only be half as bad as what the elf is experiencing now, but even so…expect it to be intense."

The footman nodded. "I understand. Let's do this."

Bryony took his hand. "Aramoor, you've always stood by me. You've always been a good…friend. And maybe more than that. Thank you."

Looking at his angel, Aramoor was consumed with affection. He was certain he was doing the right thing.

Kirkendale started chanting arcane words. A greenish light enveloped the ranger, a bluish light enveloped the footman. Suddenly, with a blinding flash, the two lights merged.

The footman gasped and crumpled to the ship's deck.

"Aramoor!" cried the high elf. She bent over him, concern etched on her fair face.

The footman's senses were overwhelmed…it was impossible to take it all in…he felt an emptiness, a void within himself that was new. But more than that, he felt…

"_Bryony_…" he breathed with wonder. Absolute pureness touched him. He could _feel_ the ranger, not physically, but…something more…

He got back to his feet with help from the Pathfinder.

"Did it work, Bryony? Is the emptiness better for you?"

"Oh yes…so much better…" She hugged him tightly.

"I feel you Aramoor. It's odd I can't sense a Sunwell within you…even now, I can still feel the polluted fountain within me. But…it's not in you…_Feris Decaya_! Is that what it feels like to be human?"

He laughed. "Probably."

The elf released herself from the embrace and knelt before him. She began a recitation. Aramoor recognized it as her vows to protect the Sunwell.

"_You are my hope, my future,_

_you bring peace and serenity to my soul,_

_and guide me to the greater path._

_You are my light, my warmth,_

_my purity and strength._

_You are my Aramoor, you are me,_

_and I vow to protect you, and honor you,_

_as long as I draw breath_."

She looked up at him. "_Jeris Verala_! I have a purpose again."

They had both lost everything, but now they had each other.

A sudden irrelevant statement came to Aramoor's mouth. "I…I stole a kiss from you once…on Northrend…"

She pressed her lips against his.

"_Teris Felari_! You never have to steal a kiss from me again."


	6. Cast of Characters

Cast of characters:

(in alphabetical order)

**Alvar **(baby) Princess Calia's newborn son.

**Anchises** (necromancer) High-ranking member of the Undead Scourge. Kirielle's new "boyfriend."

**Aramoor **(footman) Protagonist.

**Azgalor** (pit lord) Sent to attack the World Tree from the west.

**Berian** (priest of the Light) Kirielle's former high elf lover. Bigoted towards other races.

**Bryony** (high elf ranger) Companion of Aramoor.

**Calia** (princess of Lordaeron) Arthas's elder sister.

**Cernick** (footman Captain) Third in command of Arthas's Northrend expedition.

**Christina** (peasant) Aramoor's teenage sister. Dies of the plague.

**Kirielle Lenaire** (dark ranger) Former best friend of Bryony. Now fighting to preserve her humanity in Unlife. Brilliant commander of the Undead Scourge.

**Kirkendale** (archmage) Foppish nobleman and a Major in the Alliance army. Assigned caretaker of baby Alvar.

**Rolan** (paladin) A member of Arthas's Northrend expedition.

**Zenedar** (dreadlord) Incompetent general of the Undead Scourge. Tasked with watching over Kirielle.

**Zerah Starseeker** (priestess of the moon) Pampered leader of the night elf Starseeker tribe who bites off more than she can chew, so to speak.

These Blizzard characters are mentioned:

**Archimond** (demon lord) Leads the Burning Legion's invasion of the world in Warcraft 3.

**Arthas** (paladin, death knight) Really, if you don't know who Arthas is…

**Balegun** (mountain king) After Muradin is killed this dwarf assumes a leadership position in the dwarven expedition.

**Calia **(princess of Lordaeron) from "Day of the Dragon" novel. Arthas's elder sister.

**Jaina Proudmoore** (archmage) Leads an Alliance expedition to Kalimdor to stop the Burning Legion. Former girlfriend of Arthas.

**Lich King** (leader of the Undead Scourge) Is trapped in the Frozen Throne on the Icecrown glacier in Northrend. The Throne also serves as the source of his power. A servant of the Burning Legion who wishes to break ties with them and return to life.

**Mal'Ganis** (dreadlord) Leads the initial Scourge invasion of Lordaeron. Killed by Arthas on Northrend.

**Muradin Bronzebeard** (mountain king) Friend of Arthas who joins up with him on Northrend. Is killed when Arthas draws the runeblade Frostmourne.

**Sylvanas Windrunner** (high elf ranger) Ranger-General of the high elf nation of Quel'thalas. Turned into a banshee/dark ranger by Arthas.

**Terenas** (king of Lordaeron) Killed by his son Arthas in an awesome cinematic.

**Tichondrius** (leader of the dreadlords) Charged by Archimond to watch over the Lich King.

**Tyrande Whisperwind** (priestess of the moon) Leader of the night elf Sentinels who protect Ashenvale and the World Tree.

Good grief! Is it already 2008? "Heartwell" is now far enough in the past that I can read it without cringing at all the things I did wrong.


	7. The Making of Heartwell

The Making of Heartwell

It all started with four old SSI computer games: The Pool of Radiance, Curse of the Azure Bonds, Secret of the Silver Blades, and Pools of Darkness. The basic format of these games was that you had to guide a party of six adventurers to victory against the servants of the evil god Bane. There was a lot of combat and not much in the way of character development.

My overactive imagination being what it is, I found myself creating personalities and backstories for each of my six adventurers. On the computer screen they were just a series of numbers and pixels, but in my mind they evolved into men and women of flesh and blood, with hopes and dreams, strengths and flaws.

There was Sir Dryden, the noble human paladin. He was a master negotiator and leader of the group. There was Malachite the crusty Dwarven fighter/thief, who valued honor in combat above all else. And there was Paine and Epona. The unrequited love between these two fictional characters eventually evolved into the story of Heartwell. It went like this:

Paine was a human ranger who became smitten with Epona. In Heartwell he became the human fighter Aramoor.

Epona was a fighter/mage, the most powerful member of the group. Epona ended up becoming Bryony. She was a beautiful young elf maiden, carrying serious emotional baggage. To make a long story short, she had a huge burden foisted upon her at a very young age – in effect she was forced to became the chosen Protector of her elf kingdom. But this was a burden she was unable and unwilling to fulfill, so she fled her homeland in shame. Far from her home, her friends, and her family, alone in the world, Epona was captured by human slavers. Sir Dryden freed her and she ended up joining his adventuring party.

Facing death together day after day, camaraderie developed. Paine was awed by Epona's fighting prowess and her beauty. A good-natured man at heart, he wanted to help Epona through her "sadness", not realizing just how deep her pain was. But Paine could not bring himself to profess his love to Epona – until Bane was defeated for good.

Epona was always in great pain. Emotional pain, as she was a young elf forced to grow up before her time, and physical pain, as her failure to fulfill her role as Protector of her kingdom manifested itself as a magical uncurable illness (think severe hemophilia). The pain was unbearable, and she contemplated suicide often. Epona became pessimistic and had no faith in anything. The ONLY thing that that kept her from taking her own life was the righteousness of her war against evil.

Until that war was over. At the end of the 4 - game series, the adventurers had fought and won literally thousands of battles against impossible odds. They had almost single-handedly defeated the evil god Bane and his myriad of servants and allies. There was no more righteous crusade for Epona to fight.

So after the party's unprecedented victory against Bane's overwhelming superiority, they go on the "happy ship" and sail off into the sunset. The world was at peace. A happy ending for everyone! Except Epona, who suddenly lost her only remaining motivation for living with her pain. She decides it's time. On the ship deck, with the dusky sunset in the distance, she takes out her katanas and prepares to impale herself, to end her excruciating pain forever...and at the moment of decision, Paine happens upon her.

What a poignant scene! What a compelling climax! These two heroes, who have saved each others lives numerous times, come face to face. The man with everything to live for and the woman with nothing to live for...or does she? I played out this drama in my head enough times that I began to want to put it into writing.

Meanwhile, I had been wanting to write a Warcraft fanfic for a while and had started on one, entitled "Calia's Choice." The climax of this story was to be akin to Frank R. Stockton's "The Lady or the Tiger?" except that the protagonist (Princess Calia) would be forced to choose between self-immolation or undeath at the end. But after writing 20 pages of "Calia's Choice" I realized I was hopelessly bogged down. I wanted the climax to be meaningful, but in order to do that I needed to have backstory. And the rising action was taking too damn long. I realized it would take me 80 pages of rising action just to get to the 20 pages of climax that I actually wanted to write. I felt that any reader would have given up on the story long before reaching the climax. So while I wrestled with my writer's block, I decided to put "Calia's Choice" aside and work on something else. (Some of this story later ended up as chapter 30 of Heartwell).

I started writing an outline for the Paine/Epona story, and decided to try putting it in the Warcraft universe instead of Forgotten Realms. So Epona the elf fighter/mage became Bryony the high elf ranger. Bryony's blood curse became magic addiction. Her emotional pain would now not be brought about by separation from her family/friends/heritage, but by their destruction/corruption at the hands of Scourge. She now fought with a bow instead of magic and katanas.

The evil god Bane became the Lich King. Paine became the more complex Aramoor, now with a mind for military strategy and carrying emotional baggage of his own.

Kirielle, probably my favorite character, was created when I started thinking about what life would be like as a member of the Undead Scourge. It's not enough to simply have stereotypical zombies as the main villains. I wanted my antagonists to have depth, to be someone that maybe the reader could even sympathize with on some level.

Zerah – I kind of regret stuffing this third story into Heartwell. It was another case of me having a generic fantasy plotline and trying to put it onto paper. It started out as a Forgotten Realms story in which the evil plant god of corruption, Moander, corrupts an amazon queen who in turn betrays her people. Converting it to Warcraft wasn't hard, but the tone of the story didn't mesh as well with the rest of Heartwell as I had hoped. On the upside, it did show just how far Kirielle had descended into evil at that point – that she was beyond redemption.

The Frozen Throne came out, and I prayed that Sylvanas wouldn't be relegated to the status of some dumb Scourge zombie. I even hoped that she might rebel against the Lich King. Huzzah to Blizzard for making my hopes come true!

Perspectives. Note that most of the story is from the perspective of Aramoor. We also get a brief glimpse into the minds of the Kirielle, the Lich King and Zerah but that was for story reasons. There is a glaring lack of Point of View from Bryony, the love interest. Bryony's appearance is described in great detail, but Aramoor's appearance is not described at all. This was intentional. I wanted readers to put themselves in the shoes of Aramoor as he pursues Bryony.

The size of this story exploded over time, but unlike with "Calia's Choice" I wasn't afraid of the reader getting bored – with Heartwell I wasn't just filling in backstory in anticipation of the main event; the evolving struggle of Aramoor and Bryony against Kirielle is the main event.

I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it.


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